Посмертні записки Піквікського клубу

Introduces Mr. Pickwick to a new and not uninteresting Scene in the great Drama of Life

           

           Oneofthesewasamereboyofnineteenortwenty,who,thoughitwasyetbarelyteno’clock,wasdrinkinggin-and-water,andsmokingacigaramusementstowhich,judgingfromhisinflamedcountenance,hehaddevotedhimselfprettyconstantlyforthelastyearortwoofhislife.Oppositehim,engagedinstirringthefirewiththetoeofhisrightboot,wasacoarse,vulgaryoungmanofaboutthirty,withasallowfaceandharshvoice;evidentlypossessedofthatknowledgeoftheworld,andcaptivatingfreedomofmanner,whichistobeacquiredinpublic-houseparlours,andatlowbilliardtables.Thethirdtenantoftheapartmentwasamiddle-agedmaninaveryoldsuitofblack,wholookedpaleandhaggard,andpacedupanddowntheroomincessantly;stopping,nowandthen,tolookwithgreatanxietyoutofthewindowasifheexpectedsomebody,andthenresuminghiswalk.

           ‘You’dbetterhavetheloanofmyrazorthismorning,Mr.Ayresleigh,’saidthemanwhowasstirringthefire,tippingthewinktohisfriendtheboy.

           ‘Thankyou,no,Ishan’twantit;IexpectIshallbeout,inthecourseofanhourorso,’repliedtheotherinahurriedmanner.Then,walkingagainuptothewindow,andoncemorereturningdisappointed,hesigheddeeply,andlefttheroom;uponwhichtheothertwoburstintoaloudlaugh.

           ‘Well,Ineversawsuchagameasthat,’saidthegentlemanwhohadofferedtherazor,whosenameappearedtobePrice.‘Never!’Mr.

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Roboto Lora
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