Посмертні записки Піквікського клубу

What befell Mr. Pickwick when he got into the Fleet; what Prisoners he saw there; and how he passed

           

           ‘MynameisSmangle,sir,’saidthemanwiththewhiskers.

           ‘Oh,’saidMr.Pickwick.

           ‘MineisMivins,’saidthemaninthestockings.

           ‘Iamdelightedtohearit,sir,’saidMr.Pickwick.

           ‘Hem,’coughedMr.Smangle.

           ‘Didyouspeak,sir?’saidMr.Pickwick.

           ‘No,Ididnot,sir,’saidMr.Smangle.

           Allthiswasverygenteelandpleasant;and,tomakemattersstillmorecomfortable,Mr.SmangleassuredMr.Pickwickagreatmanymoretimesthatheentertainedaveryhighrespectforthefeelingsofagentleman;whichsentiment,indeed,didhiminfinitecredit,ashecouldbeinnowisesupposedtounderstandthem.

           ‘Areyougoingthroughthecourt,sir?’inquiredMr.Smangle.‘Throughthewhat?’saidMr.Pickwick.

           ‘ThroughthecourtPortugalStreettheCourtforReliefofYouknow.’

           ‘Oh,no,’repliedMr.Pickwick.‘No,Iamnot.’

           ‘Goingout,perhaps?’suggestedMr.Mivins.

           ‘Ifearnot,’repliedMr.Pickwick.‘Irefusetopaysomedamages,andamhereinconsequence.’

           ‘Ah,’saidMr.Smangle,‘paperhasbeenmyruin.’

           ‘Astationer,Ipresume,Sir?’saidMr.Pickwickinnocently.

           ‘Stationer!No,no;confoundandcurseme!Notsolowasthat.Notrade.WhenIsaypaper,Imeanbills.

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