Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

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

           Howevertheunconsciousmiddle-agedladycameintothatroom,itwasquiteclearthatshecontemplatedremainingthereforthenight;forshehadbroughtarushlightandshadewithher,which,withpraiseworthyprecautionagainstfire,shehadstationedinabasinonthefloor,whereitwasglimmeringaway,likeagiganticlighthouseinaparticularlysmallpieceofwater.

           ‘Blessmysoul!’thoughtMr.Pickwick,‘whatadreadfulthing!’

           ‘Hem!’saidthelady;andinwentMr.Pickwick’sheadwithautomaton-likerapidity.

           ‘Inevermetwithanythingsoawfulasthis,’thoughtpoorMr.Pickwick,thecoldperspirationstartingindropsuponhisnightcap.‘Never.Thisisfearful.’

           Itwasquiteimpossibletoresisttheurgentdesiretoseewhatwasgoingforward.SooutwentMr.Pickwick’sheadagain.Theprospectwasworsethanbefore.Themiddle-agedladyhadfinishedarrangingherhair;hadcarefullyenvelopeditinamuslinnightcapwithasmallplaitedborder;andwasgazingpensivelyonthefire.

           ‘Thismatterisgrowingalarming,’reasonedMr.Pickwickwithhimself.‘Ican’tallowthingstogooninthisway.Bytheself-possessionofthatlady,itiscleartomethatImusthavecomeintothewrongroom.IfIcalloutshe’llalarmthehouse;butifIremainheretheconsequenceswillbestillmorefrightful.’Mr.Pickwick,itisquiteunnecessarytosay,wasoneofthemostmodestanddelicate-mindedofmortals.

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