Посмертні записки Піквікського клубу

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

           Agoldeye-glasswassuspendedfromhisneckbyashort,broad,blackribbon;agoldsnuff-boxwaslightlyclaspedinhislefthand;goldringsinnumerableglitteredonhisfingers;andalargediamondpinsetingoldglistenedinhisshirtfrill.Hehadagoldwatch,andagoldcurbchainwithlargegoldseals;andhecarriedapliantebonycanewithagoldtop.Hislinenwasoftheverywhitest,finest,andstiffest;hiswigoftheglossiest,blackest,andcurliest.Hissnuffwasprinces’mixture;hisscentBOUQUETDUROI.Hisfeatureswerecontractedintoaperpetualsmile;andhisteethwereinsuchperfectorderthatitwasdifficultatasmalldistancetotelltherealfromthefalse.

           ‘Mr.Pickwick,’saidMr.Dowler;‘myfriend,AngeloCyrusBantam,Esquire,M.C.;Bantam;Mr.Pickwick.Knoweachother.’

           ‘WelcometoBa-ath,Sir.Thisisindeedanacquisition.MostwelcometoBa-ath,sir.Itislongverylong,Mr.Pickwick,sinceyoudrankthewaters.Itappearsanage,Mr.Pickwick.Re-markable!’

           SuchweretheexpressionswithwhichAngeloCyrusBantam,Esquire,M.C.,tookMr.Pickwick’shand;retainingitinhis,meantime,andshrugginguphisshoulderswithaconstantsuccessionofbows,asifhereallycouldnotmakeuphismindtothetrialoflettingitgoagain.

           ‘ItisaverylongtimesinceIdrankthewaters,certainly,’repliedMr.Pickwick;‘for,tothebestofmyknowledge,Iwasneverherebefore.’

           ‘NeverinBa-ath,Mr.

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