Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

In which Mr. Samuel Weller begins to devote his Energies to the Return Match between himself and Mr.

           Trotterburstintoaregularinundationoftears,and,flinginghisarmsaroundthoseofMr.Weller,embracedhimclosely,inanecstasyofjoy.

           ‘Getoff!’criedSam,indignantatthisprocess,andvainlyendeavouringtoextricatehimselffromthegraspofhisenthusiasticacquaintance.‘Getoff,Itellyou.Whatareyoucryingovermefor,youportableengine?’

           ‘BecauseIamsogladtoseeyou,’repliedJobTrotter,graduallyreleasingMr.Weller,asthefirstsymptomsofhispugnacitydisappeared.‘Oh,Mr.Walker,thisistoomuch.’

           ‘Toomuch!’echoedSam,‘Ithinkitistoomuchrayther!Now,whathaveyougottosaytome,eh?’

           Mr.Trottermadenoreply;forthelittlepinkpocket-handkerchiefwasinfullforce.

           ‘Whathaveyougottosaytome,aforeIknockyourheadoff?’repeatedMr.Weller,inathreateningmanner.

           ‘Eh!’saidMr.Trotter,withalookofvirtuoussurprise.

           ‘Whathaveyougottosaytome?’

           ‘I,Mr.Walker!’

           ‘Don’tcallmeValker;myname’sVeller;youknowthatvellenough.Whathaveyougottosaytome?’

           ‘Blessyou,Mr.WalkerWeller,Imeanagreatmanythings,ifyouwillcomeawaysomewhere,wherewecantalkcomfortably.IfyouknewhowIhavelookedforyou,Mr.Weller—’

           ‘Weryhard,indeed,Is’pose?’saidSamdrily.

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