Посмертні записки Піквікського клубу

           ‘Ah!fineplace,’saidthestranger,‘gloriouspile—frowningwalls—totteringarches—darknooks—crumblingstaircases—oldcathedraltoo—earthysmell—pilgrims’feetworeawaytheoldsteps—littleSaxondoors—confessionalslikemoney-takers’boxesattheatres—queercustomersthosemonks—popes,andlordtreasurers,andallsortsofoldfellows,withgreatredfaces,andbrokennoses,turningupeveryday—buffjerkinstoo—match-locks—sarcophagus—fineplace—oldlegendstoo—strangestories:capital;’andthestrangercontinuedtosoliloquiseuntiltheyreachedtheBullInn,intheHighStreet,wherethecoachstopped.

           ‘Doyouremainhere,Sir?’inquiredMr.NathanielWinkle.

           ‘Here—notI—butyou’dbetter—goodhouse—nicebeds—Wright’snexthouse,dear—verydear—half-a-crowninthebillifyoulookatthewaiter—chargeyoumoreifyoudineatafriend’sthantheywouldifyoudinedinthecoffee-room—rumfellows—very.’

           Mr.WinkleturnedtoMr.Pickwick,andmurmuredafewwords;awhisperpassedfromMr.PickwicktoMr.Snodgrass,fromMr.SnodgrasstoMr.Tupman,andnodsofassentwereexchanged.Mr.Pickwickaddressedthestranger.