Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

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

           

           Thebedsteadsstoodoneoneachsideofthedoor;andontheinnersideofeachwasalittlepath,terminatinginarush–bottomedchair,justwideenoughtoadmitofaperson’sgettingintooroutofbed,onthatside,ifheorshethoughtproper.Havingcarefullydrawnthecurtainsofhisbedontheoutside,Mr.Pickwicksatdownontherush-bottomedchair,andleisurelydivestedhimselfofhisshoesandgaiters.Hethentookoffandfoldeduphiscoat,waistcoat,andneckcloth,andslowlydrawingonhistassellednightcap,secureditfirmlyonhishead,bytyingbeneathhischinthestringswhichhealwayshadattachedtothatarticleofdress.Itwasatthismomentthattheabsurdityofhisrecentbewildermentstruckuponhismind.Throwinghimselfbackintherush-bottomedchair,Mr.Pickwicklaughedtohimselfsoheartily,thatitwouldhavebeenquitedelightfultoanymanofwell-constitutedmindtohavewatchedthesmilesthatexpandedhisamiablefeaturesastheyshoneforthfrombeneaththenightcap.

           ‘Itisthebestidea,’saidMr.Pickwicktohimself,smilingtillhealmostcrackedthenightcapstrings‘itisthebestidea,mylosingmyselfinthisplace,andwanderingaboutthesestaircases,thatIeverheardof.Droll,droll,verydroll.’HereMr.

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