Посмертні записки Піквікського клубу

Descriptive of an affecting Interview between Mr. Samuel Weller and a Family Party. Mr. Pickwick mak

           Here,thefirstobjectthatmethiseyeswashisbelovedfathersittingonabottomstair,withhishatinhishand,shoutingout‘Weller!’inhisveryloudesttone,athalf-minuteintervals.

           ‘Wotareyoua-roarin’at?’saidSamimpetuously,whentheoldgentlemanhaddischargedhimselfofanothershout;‘makingyourselfsoprecioushotthatyoulookslikeaaggrawatedglass-blower.Wot’sthematter?’

           ‘Aha!’repliedtheoldgentleman,‘Ibegantobeafeerdthatyou’dgoneforawalkroundtheRegencyPark,Sammy.’

           ‘Come,’saidSam,‘noneo’themtauntsaginthewictimo’avarice,andcomeoffthat‘erestep.Wotarcyoua-settin’downtherefor?Idon’tlivethere.’

           ‘I’vegotsuchagameforyou,Sammy,’saidtheelderMr.Weller,rising.

           ‘Stopaminit,’saidSam,‘you’reallvitebehind.’

           ‘That’sright,Sammy,rubitoff,’saidMr.Weller,ashissondustedhim.‘Itmightlookpersonalhere,ifamanwalkedaboutwithvitevashonhisclothes,eh,Sammy?’

           AsMr.Wellerexhibitedinthisplaceunequivocalsymptomsofanapproachingfitofchuckling,Saminterposedtostopit.

           ‘Keepquiet,do,’saidSam,‘therenevervossuchaoldpicter-cardborn.Wotareyoubustin’vith,now?’

           ‘Sammy,’saidMr.Weller,wipinghisforehead,‘I’mafeerdthatvuno’thesedaysIshalllaughmyselfintoaappleplexy,myboy.

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