Посмертні записки Піквікського клубу

How Mr. Winkle, when he stepped out of the Frying-pan, walked gently and comfortably into the Fire

           

           ‘Iwonderyoudidn’tseethename,’saidBobSawyer,callinghisfriend’sattentiontotheouterdoor,onwhich,inthesamewhitepaint,weretracedthewords‘Sawyer,lateNockemorf.’

           ‘Itnevercaughtmyeye,’returnedMr.Winkle.

           ‘Lord,ifIhadknownwhoyouwere,Ishouldhaverushedout,andcaughtyouinmyarms,’saidBobSawyer;‘butuponmylife,IthoughtyouweretheKing’s-taxes.’

           ‘No!’saidMr.Winkle.

           ‘Idid,indeed,’respondedBobSawyer,‘andIwasjustgoingtosaythatIwasn’tathome,butifyou’dleaveamessageI’dbesuretogiveittomyself;forhedon’tknowme;nomoredoestheLightingandPaving.IthinktheChurch-ratesguesseswhoIam,andIknowtheWater-worksdoes,becauseIdrewatoothofhiswhenIfirstcamedownhere.Butcomein,comein!’Chatteringinthisway,Mr.BobSawyerpushedMr.Winkleintothebackroom,where,amusinghimselfbyboringlittlecircularcavernsinthechimney-piecewithared-hotpoker,satnolessapersonthanMr.BenjaminAllen.

           ‘Well!’saidMr.Winkle.‘ThisisindeedapleasureIdidnotexpect.Whataveryniceplaceyouhavehere!’

           ‘Prettywell,prettywell,’repliedBobSawyer.‘IPASSED,soonafterthatpreciousparty,andmyfriendscamedownwiththeneedfulforthisbusiness;soIputonablacksuitofclothes,andapairofspectacles,andcameheretolookassolemnasIcould.

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