Посмертні записки Піквікського клубу

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

           Pickwick,minutelyscanningtheoldman’scountenance,bytheaidofhisglasses.

           ‘Strange!’saidthelittleoldman.‘Nonsense;youthinkthemstrange,becauseyouknownothingaboutit.Theyarefunny,butnotuncommon.’

           ‘Funny!’exclaimedMr.Pickwickinvoluntarily.‘Yes,funny,aretheynot?’repliedthelittleoldman,withadiabolicalleer;andthen,withoutpausingforananswer,hecontinued

           ‘Iknewanothermanletmeseefortyyearsagonowwhotookanold,damp,rottensetofchambers,inoneofthemostancientinns,thathadbeenshutupandemptyforyearsandyearsbefore.Therewerelotsofoldwomen’sstoriesabouttheplace,anditcertainlywasveryfarfrombeingacheerfulone;buthewaspoor,andtheroomswerecheap,andthatwouldhavebeenquiteasufficientreasonforhim,iftheyhadbeententimesworsethantheyreallywere.Hewasobligedtotakesomemoulderingfixturesthatwereontheplace,and,amongtherest,wasagreatlumberingwoodenpressforpapers,withlargeglassdoors,andagreencurtaininside;aprettyuselessthingforhim,forhehadnopaperstoputinit;andastohisclothes,hecarriedthemaboutwithhim,andthatwasn’tveryhardwork,either.

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