Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

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

           ColonelWugsby,tappingherdaughter’scheekwithherfan,‘andarealwaystobetrusted.He’simmenselyrich,mydear.Blessyou!’WiththesewordsMrs.ColonelWugsbykissedhereldestdaughtermostaffectionately,andfrowninginawarningmannerupontheother,sortedhercards.

           PoorMr.Pickwick!hehadneverplayedwiththreethorough-pacedfemalecard-playersbefore.Theyweresodesperatelysharp,thattheyquitefrightenedhim.Ifheplayedawrongcard,MissBololookedasmallarmouryofdaggers;ifhestoppedtoconsiderwhichwastherightone,LadySnuphanuphwouldthrowherselfbackinherchair,andsmilewithamingledglanceofimpatienceandpitytoMrs.ColonelWugsby,atwhichMrs.ColonelWugsbywouldshruguphershoulders,andcough,asmuchastosayshewonderedwhetherheeverwouldbegin.Then,attheendofeveryhand,MissBolowouldinquirewithadismalcountenanceandreproachfulsigh,whyMr.Pickwickhadnotreturnedthatdiamond,orledtheclub,orroughedthespade,orfinessedtheheart,orledthroughthehonour,orbroughtouttheace,orplayeduptotheking,orsomesuchthing;andinreplytoallthesegravecharges,Mr.Pickwickwouldbewhollyunabletopleadanyjustificationwhatever,havingbythistimeforgottenallaboutthegame.Peoplecameandlookedon,too,whichmadeMr.Pickwicknervous

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