Посмертні записки Піквікського клубу

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

           Thestreetisbroad,theshopsarespacious,thenoiseofpassingvehicles,thefootstepsofaperpetualstreamofpeopleallthebusysoundsoftraffic,resoundinitfrommorntomidnight;butthestreetsaroundaremeanandclose;povertyanddebaucheryliefesteringinthecrowdedalleys;wantandmisfortunearepentupinthenarrowprison;anairofgloomanddrearinessseems,inmyeyesatleast,tohangaboutthescene,andtoimparttoitasqualidandsicklyhue.

           ‘Manyeyes,thathavelongsincebeenclosedinthegrave,havelookedrounduponthatscenelightlyenough,whenenteringthegateoftheoldMarshalseaPrisonforthefirsttime;fordespairseldomcomeswiththefirstsevereshockofmisfortune.Amanhasconfidenceinuntriedfriends,heremembersthemanyoffersofservicesofreelymadebyhisbooncompanionswhenhewantedthemnot;hehashopethehopeofhappyinexperienceandhoweverhemaybendbeneaththefirstshock,itspringsupinhisbosom,andflourishesthereforabriefspace,untilitdroopsbeneaththeblightofdisappointmentandneglect.Howsoonhavethosesameeyes,deeplysunkeninthehead,glaredfromfaceswastedwithfamine,andsallowfromconfinement,indayswhenitwasnofigureofspeechtosaythatdebtorsrottedinprison,withnohopeofrelease,andnoprospectofliberty!Theatrocityinitsfullextentnolongerexists,butthereisenoughofitlefttogiverisetooccurrencesthatmaketheheartbleed.

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Roboto Lora
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