Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

Containing the Story of the Bagman’s Uncle

           Theywerethedecayingskeletonsofdepartedmails,andinthatlonelyplace,atthattimeofnight,theylookedchillanddismal.

           ‘Myunclerestedhisheaduponhishands,andthoughtofthebusy,bustlingpeoplewhohadrattledabout,yearsbefore,intheoldcoaches,andwerenowassilentandchanged;hethoughtofthenumbersofpeopletowhomoneofthesecrazy,moulderingvehicleshadborne,nightafternight,formanyyears,andthroughallweathers,theanxiouslyexpectedintelligence,theeagerlylooked-forremittance,thepromisedassuranceofhealthandsafety,thesuddenannouncementofsicknessanddeath.Themerchant,thelover,thewife,thewidow,themother,theschool-boy,theverychildwhototteredtothedooratthepostman’sknockhowhadtheyalllookedforwardtothearrivaloftheoldcoach.Andwhereweretheyallnow?‘Gentlemen,myuncleusedtoSAYthathethoughtallthisatthetime,butIrathersuspecthelearneditoutofsomebookafterwards,forhedistinctlystatedthathefellintoakindofdoze,ashesatontheoldaxle-treelookingatthedecayedmailcoaches,andthathewassuddenlyawakenedbysomedeepchurchbellstrikingtwo.Now,myunclewasneverafastthinker,andifhehadthoughtallthesethings,Iamquitecertainitwouldhavetakenhimtillfullhalf-pasttwoo’clockattheveryleast.Iam,therefore,decidedlyofopinion,gentlemen,thatmyunclefellintoakindofdoze,withouthavingthoughtaboutanythingatall.

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