Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

Mr. Pickwick journeys to Ipswich and meets with a romantic Adventure with a middle-aged Lady in yell

           Neverwassuchlabyrinthsofuncarpetedpassages,suchclustersofmouldy,ill-lightedrooms,suchhugenumbersofsmalldensforeatingorsleepingin,beneathanyoneroof,asarecollectedtogetherbetweenthefourwallsoftheGreatWhiteHorseatIpswich.

           ItwasatthedoorofthisovergrowntavernthattheLondoncoachstopped,atthesamehoureveryevening;anditwasfromthissameLondoncoachthatMr.Pickwick,SamWeller,andMr.PeterMagnusdismounted,ontheparticulareveningtowhichthischapterofourhistorybearsreference.

           ‘Doyoustophere,sir?’inquiredMr.PeterMagnus,whenthestripedbag,andtheredbag,andthebrown-paperparcel,andtheleatherhat-box,hadallbeendepositedinthepassage.‘Doyoustophere,sir?’

           ‘Ido,’saidMr.Pickwick.

           ‘Dearme,’saidMr.Magnus,‘Ineverknewanythingliketheseextraordinarycoincidences.Why,Istopheretoo.Ihopewedinetogether?’

           ‘Withpleasure,’repliedMr.Pickwick.‘IamnotquitecertainwhetherIhaveanyfriendshereornot,though.IsthereanygentlemanofthenameofTupmanhere,waiter?’

           Acorpulentman,withafortnight’snapkinunderhisarm,andcoevalstockingsonhislegs,slowlydesistedfromhisoccupationofstaringdownthestreet,onthisquestionbeingputtohimbyMr.

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