Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

Showing how Mr. Samuel Weller got into Difficulties

           

           ‘IthinkI’dbetterseearteritatonce,’saidSam,stillhesitating.

           Mr.Pickwicklookedamazed,butsaidnothing.

           ‘ThefactissaidSam,stoppingshort.

           ‘Well!’saidMr.Pickwick.‘Speakout,Sam.’

           ‘Why,thefactis,’saidSam,withadesperateeffort,‘perhapsI’dbetterseeartermybedaforeIdoanythin’else.’

           ‘YOURBED!’exclaimedMr.Pickwick,inastonishment.

           ‘Yes,mybed,Sir,’repliedSam,‘I’maprisoner.Iwasarrestedthishereweryarternoonfordebt.’

           ‘Youarrestedfordebt!’exclaimedMr.Pickwick,sinkingintoachair.

           ‘Yes,fordebt,Sir,’repliedSam.‘Andthemanasputsmein,’ullneverletmeouttillyougoyourself.’

           ‘Blessmyheartandsoul!’ejaculatedMr.Pickwick.‘Whatdoyoumean?’

           ‘WotIsay,Sir,’rejoinedSam.‘Ifit’sfortyyearstocome,Ishallbeaprisoner,andI’mverygladonit;andifithadbeenNewgate,itwouldha’beenjustthesame.Nowthemurder’sout,and,damme,there’sanendonit!’

           Withthesewords,whichherepeatedwithgreatemphasisandviolence,SamWellerdashedhishatupontheground,inamostunusualstateofexcitement;andthen,foldinghisarms,lookedfirmlyandfixedlyinhismaster’sface.

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