Посмертні записки Піквікського клубу

Mr. Pickwick journeys to Ipswich and meets with a romantic Adventure with a middle-aged Lady in yell

           What’syourname,sir?’

           ‘Hereismycard,sir,’repliedMr.Pickwick,muchamusedbytheabruptnessofthequestion,andthesingularmannerofthestranger.

           ‘Ah,’saidthered-hairedman,placingthecardinhispocket-book,‘Pickwick;verygood.Iliketoknowaman’sname,itsavessomuchtrouble.That’smycard,sir.Magnus,youwillperceive,sirMagnusismyname.It’sratheragoodname,Ithink,sir.’

           ‘Averygoodname,indeed,’saidMr.Pickwick,whollyunabletorepressasmile.

           ‘Yes,Ithinkitis,’resumedMr.Magnus.‘There’sagoodnamebeforeit,too,youwillobserve.Permitme,sirifyouholdthecardalittleslanting,thisway,youcatchthelightupontheup-stroke.TherePeterMagnussoundswell,Ithink,sir.’

           ‘Very,’saidMr.Pickwick.

           ‘Curiouscircumstanceaboutthoseinitials,sir,’saidMr.Magnus.‘YouwillobserveP.M.postmeridian.Inhastynotestointimateacquaintance,Isometimessignmyself"Afternoon."Itamusesmyfriendsverymuch,Mr.Pickwick.’

           ‘Itiscalculatedtoaffordthemthehighestgratification,Ishouldconceive,’saidMr.Pickwick,ratherenvyingtheeasewithwhichMr.Magnus’sfriendswereentertained.

           ‘Now,gen’l’m’n,’saidthehostler,‘coachisready,ifyouplease.’

           ‘Isallmyluggagein?’inquiredMr.Magnus.

           ‘Allright,sir.

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