Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

Too full of Adventure to be briefly described

           

           ‘That’sthetime,’thoughtMr.Pickwick,gettingcautiouslyonhisfeet.Helookedupatthehouse.Thelightshaddisappeared,andtheshutterswereclosedallinbed,nodoubt.Hewalkedontiptoetothedoor,andgaveagentletap.Twoorthreeminutespassingwithoutanyreply,hegaveanothertapratherlouder,andthenanotherratherlouderthanthat.

           Atlengththesoundoffeetwasaudibleuponthestairs,andthenthelightofacandleshonethroughthekeyholeofthedoor.Therewasagooddealofunchainingandunbolting,andthedoorwasslowlyopened.

           Nowthedooropenedoutwards;andasthedooropenedwiderandwider,Mr.Pickwickrecededbehindit,moreandmore.Whatwashisastonishmentwhenhejustpeepedout,bywayofcaution,toseethatthepersonwhohadopeneditwasnotJobTrotter,butaservant-girlwithacandleinherhand!Mr.Pickwickdrewinhisheadagain,withtheswiftnessdisplayedbythatadmirablemelodramaticperformer,Punch,whenheliesinwaitfortheflat-headedcomedianwiththetinboxofmusic.

           ‘Itmusthavebeenthecat,Sarah,’saidthegirl,addressingherselftosomeoneinthehouse.‘Puss,puss,pusstit,tit,tit.’

           Butnoanimalbeingdecoyedbytheseblandishments,thegirlslowlyclosedthedoor,andre-fastenedit;leavingMr.Pickwickdrawnupstraightagainstthewall.

           ‘Thisisverycurious,’thoughtMr.Pickwick.‘Theyaresittingupbeyondtheirusualhour,Isuppose.

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