Посмертні записки Піквікського клубу

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

           Well,hehadmovedinallhisfurnitureitwasn’tquiteatruck-fullandhadsprinkleditabouttheroom,soastomakethefourchairslookasmuchlikeadozenaspossible,andwassittingdownbeforethefireatnight,drinkingthefirstglassoftwogallonsofwhiskyhehadorderedoncredit,wonderingwhetheritwouldeverbepaidfor,andifso,inhowmanyyears’time,whenhiseyesencounteredtheglassdoorsofthewoodenpress."Ah,"sayshe,"ifIhadn’tbeenobligedtotakethatuglyarticleattheoldbroker’svaluation,Imighthavegotsomethingcomfortableforthemoney.I’lltellyouwhatitis,oldfellow,"hesaid,speakingaloudtothepress,havingnothingelsetospeakto,"ifitwouldn’tcostmoretobreakupyouroldcarcass,thanitwouldeverbeworthafterward,I’dhaveafireoutofyouinlessthannotime."Hehadhardlyspokenthewords,whenasoundresemblingafaintgroan,appearedtoissuefromtheinteriorofthecase.Itstartledhimatfirst,butthinking,onamoment’sreflection,thatitmustbesomeyoungfellowinthenextchamber,whohadbeendiningout,heputhisfeetonthefender,andraisedthepokertostirthefire.Atthatmoment,thesoundwasrepeated;andoneoftheglassdoorsslowlyopening,disclosedapaleandemaciatedfigureinsoiledandwornapparel,standingerectinthepress.

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Roboto Lora
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