Посмертні записки Піквікського клубу

In which Mr. Pickwick thinks he had better go to Bath; and goes accordingly

           

           ‘Somemoretoast.’

           ‘Yes,sir.’

           ‘Butteredtoast,mind,’saidthegentlemanfiercely.

           ‘Directly,sir,’repliedthewaiter.

           Thegentlemanwiththewhiskershummedatuneinthesamemannerasbefore,andpendingthearrivalofthetoast,advancedtothefrontofthefire,and,takinghiscoattailsunderhisarms,lookedathisbootsandruminated.

           ‘IwonderwhereaboutsinBaththiscoachputsup,’saidMr.Pickwick,mildlyaddressingMr.Winkle.

           ‘Humehwhat’sthat?’saidthestrangeman.

           ‘Imadeanobservationtomyfriend,sir,’repliedMr.Pickwick,alwaysreadytoenterintoconversation.‘IwonderedatwhathousetheBathcoachputup.Perhapsyoucaninformme.’‘AreyougoingtoBath?’saidthestrangeman.

           ‘Iam,sir,’repliedMr.Pickwick.

           ‘Andthoseothergentlemen?’

           ‘Theyaregoingalso,’saidMr.Pickwick.

           ‘NotinsideI’llbedamnedifyou’regoinginside,’saidthestrangeman.

           ‘Notallofus,’saidMr.Pickwick.

           ‘No,notallofyou,’saidthestrangemanemphatically.‘I’vetakentwoplaces.Iftheytrytosqueezesixpeopleintoaninfernalboxthatonlyholdsfour,I’lltakeapost-chaiseandbringanaction.I’vepaidmyfare.Itwon’tdo;ItoldtheclerkwhenItookmyplacesthatitwouldn’tdo.

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