Посмертні записки Піквікського клубу

Comprising the final Exit of Mr. Jingle and Job Trotter, with a great Morning of business in Gray’s

           ThehealthylightofafineOctobermorningmadeeventhedingyoldhousesbrightenupalittle;someofthedustywindowsactuallylookingalmostcheerfulasthesun’sraysgleameduponthem.Clerkafterclerkhastenedintothesquarebyoneorotheroftheentrances,andlookingupattheHallclock,acceleratedordecreasedhisrateofwalkingaccordingtothetimeatwhichhisofficehoursnominallycommenced;thehalf-pastnineo’clockpeoplesuddenlybecomingverybrisk,andtheteno’clockgentlemenfallingintoapaceofmostaristocraticslowness.Theclockstruckten,andclerkspouredinfasterthanever,eachoneinagreaterperspirationthanhispredecessor.Thenoiseofunlockingandopeningdoorsechoedandre-echoedoneveryside;headsappearedasifbymagicineverywindow;theporterstookuptheirstationsfortheday;theslipshodlaundresseshurriedoff;thepostmanranfromhousetohouse;andthewholelegalhivewasinabustle.

           ‘You’reearly,Mr.Pickwick,’saidavoicebehindhim.

           ‘Ah,Mr.Lowten,’repliedthatgentleman,lookinground,andrecognisinghisoldacquaintance.

           ‘Preciouswarmwalking,isn’tit?’saidLowten,drawingaBramahkeyfromhispocket,withasmallplugtherein,tokeepthedustout.

           ‘Youappeartofeelitso,’rejoinedMr.Pickwick,smilingattheclerk,whowasliterallyred-hot.

           ‘I’vecomealong,rather,Icantellyou,’repliedLowten.‘ItwentthehalfhourasIcamethroughthePolygon.

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Roboto Lora
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