Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

Samuel Weller makes a Pilgrimage to Dorking, and beholds his Mother-in-law

           Theopenshuttersboreavarietyofgoldeninscriptions,eulogisticofgoodbedsandneatwines;andthechoicegroupofcountrymenandhostlersloungingaboutthestabledoorandhorse-trough,affordedpresumptiveproofoftheexcellentqualityofthealeandspiritswhichweresoldwithin.SamWellerpaused,whenhedismountedfromthecoach,tonotealltheselittleindicationsofathrivingbusiness,withtheeyeofanexperiencedtraveller;andhavingdoneso,steppedinatonce,highlysatisfiedwitheverythinghehadobserved.

           ‘Now,then!’saidashrillfemalevoicetheinstantSamthrusthisheadinatthedoor,‘whatdoyouwant,youngman?’

           Samlookedroundinthedirectionwhencethevoiceproceeded.Itcamefromaratherstoutladyofcomfortableappearance,whowasseatedbesidethefireplaceinthebar,blowingthefiretomakethekettleboilfortea.Shewasnotalone;forontheothersideofthefireplace,sittingboltuprightinahigh-backedchair,wasamaninthreadbareblackclothes,withabackalmostaslongandstiffasthatofthechairitself,whocaughtSam’smostparticularandespecialattentionatonce.

           Hewasaprim-faced,red-nosedman,withalong,thincountenance,andasemi-rattlesnakesortofeyerathersharp,butdecidedlybad.Heworeveryshorttrousers,andblackcottonstockings,which,liketherestofhisapparel,wereparticularlyrusty.

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