Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

An old-fashioned Card-party — The Clergyman’s verses — The Story of the Convict’s Return

           Hisstepsechoedthroughthelowbuildingwithahollowsound,andhealmostfearedtobealone,itwassostillandquiet.Helookedroundhim.Nothingwaschanged.Theplaceseemedsmallerthanitusedtobe;butthereweretheoldmonumentsonwhichhehadgazedwithchildishaweathousandtimes;thelittlepulpitwithitsfadedcushion;theCommuniontablebeforewhichhehadsooftenrepeatedtheCommandmentshehadreverencedasachild,andforgottenasaman.Heapproachedtheoldseat;itlookedcoldanddesolate.Thecushionhadbeenremoved,andtheBiblewasnotthere.Perhapshismothernowoccupiedapoorerseat,orpossiblyshehadgrowninfirmandcouldnotreachthechurchalone.Hedarednotthinkofwhathefeared.Acoldfeelingcreptoverhim,andhetrembledviolentlyasheturnedaway.‘Anoldmanenteredtheporchjustashereachedit.Edmundsstartedback,forheknewhimwell;manyatimehehadwatchedhimdigginggravesinthechurchyard.Whatwouldhesaytothereturnedconvict?

           ‘Theoldmanraisedhiseyestothestranger’sface,badehim"good-evening,"andwalkedslowlyon.Hehadforgottenhim.

           ‘Hewalkeddownthehill,andthroughthevillage.Theweatherwaswarm,andthepeopleweresittingattheirdoors,orstrollingintheirlittlegardensashepassed,enjoyingtheserenityoftheevening,andtheirrestfromlabour.Manyalookwasturnedtowardshim,andmanyadoubtfulglancehecastoneithersidetoseewhetheranyknewandshunnedhim.

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