Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

A good-humoured Christmas Chapter, containing an Account of a Wedding, and some other Sports beside:

           

           ‘Iimaginenot,sirIimaginenot,’saidMr.Pickwick,inaveryperemptorytone.

           Mr.Tupmanhadcontemplatedalaugh,buthefounditwasaseriousmatter;sohelookedgrave,andsaidtheywereaprettypattern.

           ‘Ihopetheyare,’saidMr.Pickwick,fixinghiseyesuponhisfriend.‘Youseenothingextraordinaryinthestockings,ASstockings,Itrust,Sir?’

           ‘Certainlynot.Oh,certainlynot,’repliedMr.Tupman.Hewalkedaway;andMr.Pickwick’scountenanceresumeditscustomarybenignexpression.

           ‘Weareallready,Ibelieve,’saidMr.Pickwick,whowasstationedwiththeoldladyatthetopofthedance,andhadalreadymadefourfalsestarts,inhisexcessiveanxietytocommence.

           ‘Thenbeginatonce,’saidWardle.‘Now!’

           Upstruckthetwofiddlesandtheoneharp,andoffwentMr.Pickwickintohandsacross,whentherewasageneralclappingofhands,andacryof‘Stop,stop!’

           ‘What’sthematter?’saidMr.Pickwick,whowasonlybroughtto,bythefiddlesandharpdesisting,andcouldhavebeenstoppedbynootherearthlypower,ifthehousehadbeenonfire.‘Where’sArabellaAllen?’criedadozenvoices.

           ‘AndWinkle?‘addedMr.Tupman.

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