Посмертні записки Піквікського клубу

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

           Itwasasceneofgaiety,glitter,andshow;ofrichly-dressedpeople,handsomemirrors,chalkedfloors,girandolesandwax-candles;andinallpartsofthescene,glidingfromspottospotinsilentsoftness,bowingobsequiouslytothisparty,noddingfamiliarlytothat,andsmilingcomplacentlyonall,wasthesprucely-attiredpersonofAngeloCyrusBantam,Esquire,theMasteroftheCeremonies.

           ‘Stopinthetea-room.Takeyoursixpenn’orth.Thenlayonhotwater,andcallittea.Drinkit,’saidMr.Dowler,inaloudvoice,directingMr.Pickwick,whoadvancedattheheadofthelittleparty,withMrs.Dowleronhisarm.Intothetea-roomMr.Pickwickturned;andcatchingsightofhim,Mr.Bantamcorkscrewedhiswaythroughthecrowdandwelcomedhimwithecstasy.

           ‘MydearSir,Iamhighlyhonoured.Ba-athisfavoured.Mrs.Dowler,youembellishtherooms.Icongratulateyouonyourfeathers.Re-markable!’

           ‘Anybodyhere?’inquiredDowlersuspiciously.

           ‘Anybody!TheELITEofBa-ath.Mr.Pickwick,doyouseetheoldladyinthegauzeturban?’

           ‘Thefatoldlady?’inquiredMr.Pickwickinnocently.

           ‘Hush,mydearsirnobody’sfatoroldinBa-ath.That’stheDowagerLadySnuphanuph.’

           ‘Isit,indeed?’saidMr.Pickwick.

           ‘Nolessaperson,Iassureyou,’saidtheMasteroftheCeremonies.‘Hush.Drawalittlenearer,Mr.Pickwick.

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