Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

The Story of the Goblins who stole a Sexton

           Now,Gabrielhadbeenlookingforwardtoreachingthedarklane,becauseitwas,generallyspeaking,anice,gloomy,mournfulplace,intowhichthetownspeopledidnotmuchcaretogo,exceptinbroaddaylight,andwhenthesunwasshining;consequently,hewasnotalittleindignanttohearayoungurchinroaringoutsomejollysongaboutamerryChristmas,inthisverysanctuarywhichhadbeencalledCoffinLaneeversincethedaysoftheoldabbey,andthetimeoftheshaven-headedmonks.AsGabrielwalkedon,andthevoicedrewnearer,hefounditproceededfromasmallboy,whowashurryingalong,tojoinoneofthelittlepartiesintheoldstreet,andwho,partlytokeephimselfcompany,andpartlytopreparehimselffortheoccasion,wasshoutingoutthesongatthehighestpitchofhislungs.SoGabrielwaiteduntiltheboycameup,andthendodgedhimintoacorner,andrappedhimovertheheadwithhislanternfiveorsixtimes,justtoteachhimtomodulatehisvoice.Andastheboyhurriedawaywithhishandtohishead,singingquiteadifferentsortoftune,GabrielGrubchuckledveryheartilytohimself,andenteredthechurchyard,lockingthegatebehindhim.

           ‘Hetookoffhiscoat,setdownhislantern,andgettingintotheunfinishedgrave,workedatitforanhourorsowithrightgood-will.Buttheearthwashardenedwiththefrost,anditwasnoveryeasymattertobreakitup,andshovelitout;andalthoughtherewasamoon,itwasaveryyoungone,andshedlittlelightuponthegrave,whichwasintheshadowofthechurch.

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Roboto Lora
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