Посмертні записки Піквікського клубу

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

           Dumkinsactingaschairman,andMr.Luffeyofficiatingasvice.

           Therewasavastdealoftalkingandrattlingofknivesandforks,andplates;agreatrunningaboutofthreeponderous–headedwaiters,andarapiddisappearanceofthesubstantialviandsonthetable;toeachandeveryofwhichitemofconfusion,thefacetiousMr.Jinglelenttheaidofhalf-a-dozenordinarymenatleast.Wheneverybodyhadeatenasmuchaspossible,theclothwasremoved,bottles,glasses,anddessertwereplacedonthetable;andthewaiterswithdrewto‘clearaway,‘orinotherwords,toappropriatetotheirownprivateuseandemolumentwhateverremnantsoftheeatablesanddrinkablestheycouldcontrivetolaytheirhandson.

           Amidstthegeneralhumofmirthandconversationthatensued,therewasalittlemanwithapuffySay-nothing-to-me,-or–I’ll–contradict-yousortofcountenance,whoremainedveryquiet;occasionallylookingroundhimwhentheconversationslackened,asifhecontemplatedputtinginsomethingveryweighty;andnowandthenburstingintoashortcoughofinexpressiblegrandeur.Atlength,duringamomentofcomparativesilence,thelittlemancalledoutinaveryloud,solemnvoice

           ‘Mr.Luffey!’

           Everybodywashushedintoaprofoundstillnessastheindividualaddressed,replied

           ‘Sir!’

           ‘Iwishtoaddressafewwordstoyou,Sir,ifyouwillentreatthegentlementofilltheirglasses.’

           Mr.

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Roboto Lora
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