Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

The Story of the Goblins who stole a Sexton

           Thesnowlayhardandcrispupontheground;andspreadoverthethickly-strewnmoundsofearth,sowhiteandsmoothacoverthatitseemedasifcorpseslaythere,hiddenonlybytheirwindingsheets.Notthefaintestrustlebroketheprofoundtranquillityofthesolemnscene.Sounditselfappearedtobefrozenup,allwassocoldandstill.

           ‘"Itwastheechoes,"saidGabrielGrub,raisingthebottletohislipsagain.

           ‘"ItwasNOT,"saidadeepvoice.

           ‘Gabrielstartedup,andstoodrootedtothespotwithastonishmentandterror;forhiseyesrestedonaformthatmadehisbloodruncold.

           ‘Seatedonanuprighttombstone,closetohim,wasastrange,unearthlyfigure,whomGabrielfeltatonce,wasnobeingofthisworld.Hislong,fantasticlegswhichmighthavereachedtheground,werecockedup,andcrossedafteraquaint,fantasticfashion;hissinewyarmswerebare;andhishandsrestedonhisknees.Onhisshort,roundbody,heworeaclosecovering,ornamentedwithsmallslashes;ashortcloakdangledathisback;thecollarwascutintocuriouspeaks,whichservedthegoblininlieuofrufforneckerchief;andhisshoescurledupathistoesintolongpoints.Onhishead,heworeabroad-brimmedsugar-loafhat,garnishedwithasinglefeather.Thehatwascoveredwiththewhitefrost;andthegoblinlookedasifhehadsatonthesametombstoneverycomfortably,fortwoorthreehundredyears.

Настройки
Фон страницы
Размер шрифта
Межстрочный интервал
Фразовые глаголы
Показать / Скрыть меню
Шрифт
Roboto Lora
Уведомления
Страница 643 из 1301