Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

How Mr. Winkle, instead of shooting at the Pigeon and killing the Crow, shot at the Crow and wounded

           TracyTupmangentlypressedherhandtohislips,andsankuponthesofa.

           ‘Areyoufaint?’inquiredtheanxiousRachael.

           ‘No,’saidMr.Tupman.‘Itisnothing.Ishallbebetterpresently.’Heclosedhiseyes.

           ‘Hesleeps,’murmuredthespinsteraunt.(Hisorgansofvisionhadbeenclosednearlytwentyseconds.)‘DeardearMr.Tupman!’

           Mr.Tupmanjumpedup—‘Oh,saythosewordsagain!’heexclaimed.

           Theladystarted.‘Surelyyoudidnothearthem!’shesaidbashfully.

           ‘Oh,yes,Idid!’repliedMr.Tupman;‘repeatthem.Ifyouwouldhavemerecover,repeatthem.’‘Hush!’saidthelady.‘Mybrother.’Mr.TracyTupmanresumedhisformerposition;andMr.Wardle,accompaniedbyasurgeon,enteredtheroom.

           Thearmwasexamined,thewounddressed,andpronouncedtobeaveryslightone;andthemindsofthecompanyhavingbeenthussatisfied,theyproceededtosatisfytheirappetiteswithcountenancestowhichanexpressionofcheerfulnesswasagainrestored.Mr.Pickwickalonewassilentandreserved.Doubtanddistrustwereexhibitedinhiscountenance.HisconfidenceinMr.Winklehadbeenshakengreatlyshakenbytheproceedingsofthemorning.‘Areyouacricketer?’inquiredMr.Wardleofthemarksman.

           Atanyothertime,Mr.Winklewouldhaverepliedintheaffirmative.Hefeltthedelicacyofhissituation,andmodestlyreplied,‘No.

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