Посмертні записки Піквікського клубу

Samuel Weller makes a Pilgrimage to Dorking, and beholds his Mother-in-law

           Ifhedidn’tgiveitme,Itookit,forfearIshouldbeledtodoanythin’wrong,throughnothavin’it.Isavedhimaworldo’troublethisvay,Sir.’

           ‘That’snotpreciselywhatImeant,Sam,’saidMr.Pickwick,shakinghishead,withaslightsmile.

           ‘Allgoodfeelin’,sirthewerybestintentions,asthegen’l’m’nsaidvenherunawayfromhiswife‘cossheseemedunhappywithhim,’repliedMr.Weller.

           ‘Youmaygo,Sam,’saidMr.Pickwick.

           ‘Thank’ee,Sir,’repliedMr.Weller;andhavingmadehisbestbow,andputonhisbestclothes,SamplantedhimselfonthetopoftheArundelcoach,andjourneyedontoDorking.

           TheMarquisofGranby,inMrs.Weller’stime,wasquiteamodelofaroadsidepublic-houseofthebetterclassjustlargeenoughtobeconvenient,andsmallenoughtobesnug.Ontheoppositesideoftheroadwasalargesign-boardonahighpost,representingtheheadandshouldersofagentlemanwithanapoplecticcountenance,inaredcoatwithdeepbluefacings,andatouchofthesameblueoverhisthree-corneredhat,forasky.Overthatagainwereapairofflags;beneaththelastbuttonofhiscoatwereacoupleofcannon;andthewholeformedanexpressiveandundoubtedlikenessoftheMarquisofGranbyofgloriousmemory.

           Thebarwindowdisplayedachoicecollectionofgeraniumplants,andawell-dustedrowofspiritphials.

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