Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

How Mr. Winkle, instead of shooting at the Pigeon and killing the Crow, shot at the Crow and wounded

           TupmancalleddistractedlyuponsomefeminineChristianname,andthenopenedfirstoneeye,andthentheother,andthenfellbackandshutthembothallthiswouldbeasdifficulttodescribeindetail,asitwouldbetodepictthegradualrecoveringoftheunfortunateindividual,thebindingupofhisarmwithpocket-handkerchiefs,andtheconveyinghimbackbyslowdegreessupportedbythearmsofhisanxiousfriends.

           Theydrewnearthehouse.Theladieswereatthegardengate,waitingfortheirarrivalandtheirbreakfast.Thespinsterauntappeared;shesmiled,andbeckonedthemtowalkquicker.‘Twasevidentsheknewnotofthedisaster.Poorthing!therearetimeswhenignoranceisblissindeed.

           Theyapproachednearer.

           ‘Why,whatisthematterwiththelittleoldgentleman?’saidIsabellaWardle.Thespinsterauntheedednottheremark;shethoughtitappliedtoMr.Pickwick.InhereyesTracyTupmanwasayouth;sheviewedhisyearsthroughadiminishingglass.

           ‘Don’tbefrightened,’calledouttheoldhost,fearfulofalarminghisdaughters.ThelittlepartyhadcrowdedsocompletelyroundMr.Tupman,thattheycouldnotyetclearlydiscernthenatureoftheaccident.

           ‘Don’tbefrightened,’saidthehost.

           ‘What’sthematter?’screamedtheladies.

           ‘Mr.Tupmanhasmetwithalittleaccident;that’sall.

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