Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

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

           

           ‘Itwassummer-time;andwrappedinhisgloomythoughts,hewouldissuefromhissolitarylodgingsearlyintheevening,andwanderingalonganarrowpathbeneaththecliffs,toawildandlonelyspotthathadstruckhisfancyinhisramblings,seathimselfonsomefallenfragmentoftherock,andburyinghisfaceinhishands,remainthereforhourssometimesuntilnighthadcompletelyclosedin,andthelongshadowsofthefrowningcliffsabovehisheadcastathick,blackdarknessoneveryobjectnearhim.

           ‘Hewasseatedhere,onecalmevening,inhisoldposition,nowandthenraisinghisheadtowatchtheflightofasea-gull,orcarryhiseyealongthegloriouscrimsonpath,which,commencinginthemiddleoftheocean,seemedtoleadtoitsveryvergewherethesunwassetting,whentheprofoundstillnessofthespotwasbrokenbyaloudcryforhelp;helistened,doubtfulofhishavingheardaright,whenthecrywasrepeatedwithevengreatervehemencethanbefore,and,startingtohisfeet,hehastenedinthedirectionwhenceitproceeded.

           ‘Thetaletolditselfatonce:somescatteredgarmentslayonthebeach;ahumanheadwasjustvisibleabovethewavesatalittledistancefromtheshore;andanoldman,wringinghishandsinagony,wasrunningtoandfro,shriekingforassistance.Theinvalid,whosestrengthwasnowsufficientlyrestored,threwoffhiscoat,andrushedtowardsthesea,withtheintentionofplungingin,anddraggingthedrowningmanashore.

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Roboto Lora
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