Посмертні записки Піквікського клубу

In which the old Man launches forth into his favourite Theme, and relates a Story about a queer Clie

           Thestewardthoughthehadrunaway:openedthedoor,andputabillup.Anothermancame,tookthechambers,furnishedthem,andwenttolivethere.Somehoworotherhecouldn’tsleepalwaysrestlessanduncomfortable."Odd,"sayshe."I’llmaketheotherroommybedchamber,andthismysitting-room."Hemadethechange,andsleptverywellatnight,butsuddenlyfoundthat,somehow,hecouldn’treadintheevening:hegotnervousanduncomfortable,andusedtobealwayssnuffinghiscandlesandstaringabouthim."Ican’tmakethisout,"saidhe,whenhecamehomefromtheplayonenight,andwasdrinkingaglassofcoldgrog,withhisbacktothewall,inorderthathemightn’tbeabletofancytherewasanyonebehindhim—"Ican’tmakeitout,"saidhe;andjustthenhiseyesrestedonthelittleclosetthathadbeenalwayslockedup,andashudderranthroughhiswholeframefromtoptotoe."Ihavefeltthisstrangefeelingbefore,"saidhe,"Icannothelpthinkingthere’ssomethingwrongaboutthatcloset."Hemadeastrongeffort,pluckeduphiscourage,shiveredthelockwithablowortwoofthepoker,openedthedoor,andthere,sureenough,standingboltuprightinthecorner,wasthelasttenant,withalittlebottleclaspedfirmlyinhishand,andhisfacewell!’Asthelittleoldmanconcluded,helookedroundontheattentivefacesofhiswonderingauditorywithasmileofgrimdelight.

           ‘Whatstrangethingstheseareyoutellusof,Sir,’saidMr.

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