Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

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

           Thefigurewastallandthin,andthecountenanceexpressiveofcareandanxiety;buttherewassomethinginthehueoftheskin,andgauntandunearthlyappearanceofthewholeform,whichnobeingofthisworldwaseverseentowear."Whoareyou?"saidthenewtenant,turningverypale;poisingthepokerinhishand,however,andtakingaverydecentaimatthecountenanceofthefigure."Whoareyou?""Don’tthrowthatpokeratme,"repliedtheform;"ifyouhurleditwitheversosureanaim,itwouldpassthroughme,withoutresistance,andexpenditsforceonthewoodbehind.Iamaspirit.""Andpray,whatdoyouwanthere?"falteredthetenant."Inthisroom,"repliedtheapparition,"myworldlyruinwasworked,andIandmychildrenbeggared.Inthispress,thepapersinalong,longsuit,whichaccumulatedforyears,weredeposited.Inthisroom,whenIhaddiedofgrief,andlong-deferredhope,twowilyharpiesdividedthewealthforwhichIhadcontestedduringawretchedexistence,andofwhich,atlast,notonefarthingwasleftformyunhappydescendants.Iterrifiedthemfromthespot,andsincethatdayhaveprowledbynighttheonlyperiodatwhichIcanrevisittheearthaboutthescenesofmylong-protractedmisery.Thisapartmentismine:leaveittome.

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