Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

Strongly illustrative of the Position, that the Course of True Love is not a Railway

           Wardletohimself.—Hehadheardthestoryfromhismother.‘Damnthatboy!Hemusthavebeenasleep.It’sallimagination.’

           ‘Traitor!’thoughtthespinsteraunt.‘DearMr.Jinglewasnotdeceivingme.Ugh!howIhatethewretch!’

           ThefollowingconversationmayservetoexplaintoourreadersthisapparentlyunaccountablealterationofdeportmentonthepartofMr.TracyTupman.

           Thetimewasevening;thescenethegarden.Thereweretwofigureswalkinginasidepath;onewasrathershortandstout;theothertallandslim.TheywereMr.TupmanandMr.Jingle.Thestoutfigurecommencedthedialogue.

           ‘HowdidIdoit?’heinquired.

           ‘Splendid—capital—couldn’tactbettermyself—youmustrepeatthepartto-morrow—everyeveningtillfurthernotice.’

           ‘DoesRachaelstillwishit?’

           ‘Ofcourse—shedon’tlikeit—butmustbedone—avertsuspicion—afraidofherbrother—saysthere’snohelpforit—onlyafewdaysmore—whenoldfolksblinded—crownyourhappiness.’

           ‘Anymessage?’

           ‘Love—bestlove—kindestregards—unalterableaffection.CanIsayanythingforyou?’

           ‘Mydearfellow,’repliedtheunsuspiciousMr.

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