Посмертні записки Піквікського клубу

Too full of Adventure to be briefly described

           What’stheothername?’

           ‘Trotter,’saidthestranger.‘Whatisyours?’

           Samboreinmindhismaster’scaution,andreplied

           ‘Myname’sWalker;mymaster’sname’sWilkins.Willyoutakeadropo’somethin’thismornin’,Mr.Trotter?’

           Mr.Trotteracquiescedinthisagreeableproposal;andhavingdepositedhisbookinhiscoatpocket,accompaniedMr.Wellertothetap,wheretheyweresoonoccupiedindiscussinganexhilaratingcompound,formedbymixingtogether,inapewtervessel,certainquantitiesofBritishHollandsandthefragrantessenceoftheclove.

           ‘Andwhatsortofaplacehaveyougot?’inquiredSam,ashefilledhiscompanion’sglass,forthesecondtime.

           ‘Bad,’saidJob,smackinghislips,‘verybad.’

           ‘Youdon’tmeanthat?’saidSam.

           ‘Ido,indeed.Worsethanthat,mymaster’sgoingtobemarried.’

           ‘No.’

           ‘Yes;andworsethanthat,too,he’sgoingtorunawaywithanimmenserichheiress,fromboarding-school.’

           ‘Whatadragon!’saidSam,refillinghiscompanion’sglass.‘It’ssomeboarding-schoolinthistown,Isuppose,ain’tit?’Now,althoughthisquestionwasputinthemostcarelesstoneimaginable,Mr.JobTrotterplainlyshowedbygesturesthatheperceivedhisnewfriend’sanxietytodrawforthananswertoit.

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