Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

An old-fashioned Card-party — The Clergyman’s verses — The Story of the Convict’s Return

           ‘Whataretheytalkingabout?’inquiredtheoldladyofoneofhergranddaughters,inaveryaudiblevoice;for,likemanydeafpeople,sheneverseemedtocalculateonthepossibilityofotherpersonshearingwhatshesaidherself.

           ‘Abouttheland,grandma.’

           ‘Whatabouttheland?Nothingthematter,isthere?’

           ‘No,no.Mr.MillerwassayingourlandwasbetterthanMullins’sMeadows.’

           ‘Howshouldheknowanythingaboutit?‘inquiredtheoldladyindignantly.‘Miller’saconceitedcoxcomb,andyoumaytellhimIsaidso.’Sayingwhich,theoldlady,quiteunconsciousthatshehadspokenaboveawhisper,drewherselfup,andlookedcarving-knivesatthehard-headeddelinquent.

           ‘Come,come,’saidthebustlinghost,withanaturalanxietytochangetheconversation,‘whatsayyoutoarubber,Mr.Pickwick?’

           ‘Ishouldlikeitofallthings,’repliedthatgentleman;‘butpraydon’tmakeuponeonmyaccount.’

           ‘Oh,Iassureyou,mother’sveryfondofarubber,’saidMr.Wardle;‘ain’tyou,mother?’

           Theoldlady,whowasmuchlessdeafonthissubjectthanonanyother,repliedintheaffirmative.

           ‘Joe,Joe!’saidthegentleman;‘Joedamnthatoh,hereheis;putoutthecardtables.

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