Посмертні записки Піквікського клубу

How Mr. Winkle, instead of shooting at the Pigeon and killing the Crow, shot at the Crow and wounded

           

           Thespinsterauntutteredapiercingscream,burstintoanhystericlaugh,andfellbackwardsinthearmsofhernieces.

           ‘Throwsomecoldwateroverher,’saidtheoldgentleman.

           ‘No,no,’murmuredthespinsteraunt;‘Iambetternow.Bella,Emilyasurgeon!Ishewounded?Ishedead?IsheHa,ha,ha!’Herethespinsterauntburstintofitnumbertwo,ofhystericlaughterinterspersedwithscreams.

           ‘Calmyourself,’saidMr.Tupman,affectedalmosttotearsbythisexpressionofsympathywithhissufferings.‘Dear,dearmadam,calmyourself.’

           ‘Itishisvoice!’exclaimedthespinsteraunt;andstrongsymptomsoffitnumberthreedevelopedthemselvesforthwith.

           ‘Donotagitateyourself,Ientreatyou,dearestmadam,’saidMr.Tupmansoothingly.‘Iamverylittlehurt,Iassureyou.’

           ‘Thenyouarenotdead!’ejaculatedthehystericallady.‘Oh,sayyouarenotdead!’

           ‘Don’tbeafool,Rachael,’interposedMr.Wardle,rathermoreroughlythanwasconsistentwiththepoeticnatureofthescene.‘Whatthedevil’stheuseofhissayingheisn’tdead?’

           ‘No,no,Iamnot,’saidMr.Tupman.‘Irequirenoassistancebutyours.Letmeleanonyourarm.’Headded,inawhisper,‘Oh,MissRachael!’Theagitatedfemaleadvanced,andofferedherarm.Theyturnedintothebreakfastparlour.Mr.

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