Посмертні записки Піквікського клубу

           ‘Who—I?Brownpaperparcelhere,that’sall—otherluggagegonebywater—packing-cases,nailedup—bigashouses—heavy,heavy,damnedheavy,’repliedthestranger,asheforcedintohispocketasmuchashecouldofthebrownpaperparcel,whichpresentedmostsuspiciousindicationsofcontainingoneshirtandahandkerchief.

           ‘Heads,heads—takecareofyourheads!’criedtheloquaciousstranger,astheycameoutunderthelowarchway,whichinthosedaysformedtheentrancetothecoach-yard.‘Terribleplace—dangerouswork—otherday—fivechildren—mother—talllady,eatingsandwiches—forgotthearch—crash—knock—childrenlookround—mother’sheadoff—sandwichinherhand—nomouthtoputitin—headofafamilyoff—shocking,shocking!LookingatWhitehall,sir?—fineplace—littlewindow—somebodyelse’sheadoffthere,eh,sir?—hedidn’tkeepasharplook-outenougheither—eh,Sir,eh?’

           ‘Iamruminating,’saidMr.Pickwick,‘onthestrangemutabilityofhumanaffairs.’

           ‘Ah!Isee—inatthepalacedooroneday,outatthewindowthenext.Philosopher,Sir?’‘Anobserverofhumannature,Sir,’saidMr.Pickwick.

           ‘Ah,soamI.Mostpeoplearewhenthey’velittletodoandlesstoget.Poet,Sir?’

           ‘MyfriendMr.Snodgrasshasastrongpoeticturn,’saidMr.Pickwick.

           ‘SohaveI,’saidthestranger.