Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

Strongly illustrative of the Position, that the Course of True Love is not a Railway

           Winkle,supportinghimselfbytheeight-dayclock,wasfeeblyinvokingdestructionupontheheadofanymemberofthefamilywhoshouldsuggesttheproprietyofhisretiringforthenight;andMr.Snodgrasshadsunkintoachair,withanexpressionofthemostabjectandhopelessmiserythatthehumanmindcanimagine,portrayedineverylineamentofhisexpressiveface.

           ‘isanythingthematter?’inquiredthethreeladies.

           ‘Nothingthematter,’repliedMr.Pickwick.‘Wewe’reallright.Isay,Wardle,we’reallright,ain’twe?’

           ‘Ishouldthinkso,’repliedthejollyhost.—‘Mydears,here’smyfriendMr.JingleMr.Pickwick’sfriend,Mr.Jingle,come‘ponlittlevisit.’

           ‘IsanythingthematterwithMr.Snodgrass,Sir?’inquiredEmily,withgreatanxiety.

           ‘Nothingthematter,ma’am,’repliedthestranger.‘Cricketdinnergloriouspartycapitalsongsoldportclaretgoodverygoodwine,ma’amwine.’

           ‘Itwasn’tthewine,’murmuredMr.Snodgrass,inabrokenvoice.‘Itwasthesalmon.’(Somehoworother,itneveristhewine,inthesecases.)

           ‘Hadn’ttheybettergotobed,ma’am?’inquiredEmma.‘Twooftheboyswillcarrythegentlemenupstairs.’

           ‘Iwon’tgotobed,’saidMr.Winklefirmly.

           ‘Nolivingboyshallcarryme,’saidMr.

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