At every moment they made comments to one another, their eyes never leaving the stage.
"Ain't dot fool joost too funny ?" "That's a pretty song.

Don't you like that kind of a song ?" "Wonderful! It's wonderful! Yes, yes, wonderful! That's the word." Owgooste, however, lost interest.

He stood up in his place, his back to the stage, chewing a piece of orange peel and watching a little girl in her father's lap across the aisle, his eyes fixed in a glassy, ox-like stare.

But he was uneasy.

He danced from one foot to the other, and at intervals appealed in hoarse whispers to his mother, who disdained an answer.
"Ma, say, ma-ah," he whined, abstractedly chewing his orange peel, staring at the little girl.
"Ma-ah, say, ma." At times his monotonous plaint reached his mother's consciousness.