Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

In which Mr. Pickwick thinks he had better go to Bath; and goes accordingly

           Intheballroom,thelongcard-room,theoctagonalcard-room,thestaircases,andthepassages,thehumofmanyvoices,andthesoundofmanyfeet,wereperfectlybewildering.Dressesrustled,featherswaved,lightsshone,andjewelssparkled.Therewasthemusicnotofthequadrilleband,forithadnotyetcommenced;butthemusicofsoft,tinyfootsteps,withnowandthenaclear,merrylaughlowandgentle,butverypleasanttohearinafemalevoice,whetherinBathorelsewhere.Brillianteyes,lightedupwithpleasurableexpectation,gleamedfromeveryside;and,lookwhereyouwould,someexquisiteformglidedgracefullythroughthethrong,andwasnosoonerlost,thanitwasreplacedbyanotherasdaintyandbewitching.

           Inthetea-room,andhoveringroundthecard-tables,wereavastnumberofqueeroldladies,anddecrepitoldgentlemen,discussingallthesmalltalkandscandaloftheday,witharelishandgustowhichsufficientlybespoketheintensityofthepleasuretheyderivedfromtheoccupation.

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