Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

In which the old Man launches forth into his favourite Theme, and relates a Story about a queer Clie

           Thesandchokedandblindedhim;itsfinethingrainsenteredtheveryporesofhisskin,andirritatedhimalmosttomadness.Giganticmassesofthesamematerial,carriedforwardbythewind,andshonethroughbytheburningsun,stalkedinthedistancelikepillarsoflivingfire.Thebonesofmen,whohadperishedinthedrearywaste,layscatteredathisfeet;afearfullightfelloneverythingaround;sofarastheeyecouldreach,nothingbutobjectsofdreadandhorrorpresentedthemselves.Vainlystrivingtoutteracryofterror,withhistonguecleavingtohismouth,herushedmadlyforward.Armedwithsupernaturalstrength,hewadedthroughthesand,until,exhaustedwithfatigueandthirst,hefellsenselessontheearth.Whatfragrantcoolnessrevivedhim;whatgushingsoundwasthat?Water!Itwasindeedawell;andtheclearfreshstreamwasrunningathisfeet.Hedrankdeeplyofit,andthrowinghisachinglimbsuponthebank,sankintoadelicioustrance.Thesoundofapproachingfootstepsrousedhim.Anoldgray-headedmantotteredforwardtoslakehisburningthirst.ItwasHEagain!Fewoundhisarmsroundtheoldman’sbody,andheldhimback.Hestruggled,andshriekedforwaterforbutonedropofwatertosavehislife!Butheheldtheoldmanfirmly,andwatchedhisagonieswithgreedyeyes;andwhenhislifelessheadfellforwardonhisbosom,herolledthecorpsefromhimwithhisfeet.

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