Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

In which the old Man launches forth into his favourite Theme, and relates a Story about a queer Clie

           

           ‘TalkofyourGermanuniversities,’saidthelittleoldman.‘Pooh,pooh!there’sromanceenoughathomewithoutgoinghalfamileforit;onlypeopleneverthinkofit.’

           ‘Ineverthoughtoftheromanceofthisparticularsubjectbefore,certainly,’saidMr.Pickwick,laughing.‘Tobesureyoudidn’t,’saidthelittleoldman;‘ofcoursenot.Asafriendofmineusedtosaytome,"Whatisthereinchambersinparticular?""Queeroldplaces,"saidI."Notatall,"saidhe."Lonely,"saidI."Notabitofit,"saidhe.Hediedonemorningofapoplexy,ashewasgoingtoopenhisouterdoor.Fellwithhisheadinhisownletter-box,andtherehelayforeighteenmonths.Everybodythoughthe’dgoneoutoftown.’

           ‘Andhowwashefoundoutatlast?’inquiredMr.Pickwick.

           ‘Thebenchersdeterminedtohavehisdoorbrokenopen,ashehadn’tpaidanyrentfortwoyears.Sotheydid.Forcedthelock;andaverydustyskeletoninabluecoat,blackknee-shorts,andsilks,fellforwardinthearmsoftheporterwhoopenedthedoor.Queer,that.Rather,perhaps;rather,eh?‘Thelittleoldmanputhisheadmoreononeside,andrubbedhishandswithunspeakableglee.

           ‘Iknowanothercase,’saidthelittleoldman,whenhischuckleshadinsomedegreesubsided.‘ItoccurredinClifford’sInn.Tenantofatopsetbadcharactershuthimselfupinhisbedroomcloset,andtookadoseofarsenic.

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