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- Чарльз Диккенс
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'
Mother
Sparsit
!
'
said
Tom
.
'
What
!
you
have
seen
her
already
,
have
you
?
'
His
friend
nodded
.
Tom
took
his
cigar
out
of
his
mouth
,
to
shut
up
his
eye
(
which
had
grown
rather
unmanageable
)
with
the
greater
expression
,
and
to
tap
his
nose
several
times
with
his
finger
.
'
Mother
Sparsit
's
feeling
for
Loo
is
more
than
admiration
,
I
should
think
,
'
said
Tom
.
'
Say
affection
and
devotion
.
Mother
Sparsit
never
set
her
cap
at
Bounderby
when
he
was
a
bachelor
.
Oh
no
!
'
These
were
the
last
words
spoken
by
the
whelp
,
before
a
giddy
drowsiness
came
upon
him
,
followed
by
complete
oblivion
.
He
was
roused
from
the
latter
state
by
an
uneasy
dream
of
being
stirred
up
with
a
boot
,
and
also
of
a
voice
saying
:
'
Come
,
it
's
late
.
Be
off
!
'
'
Well
!
'
he
said
,
scrambling
from
the
sofa
.
'
I
must
take
my
leave
of
you
though
.
I
say
.
Yours
is
very
good
tobacco
.
But
it
's
too
mild
.
'
'
Yes
,
it
's
too
mild
,
'
returned
his
entertainer
.
'
It
's
--
it
's
ridiculously
mild
,
'
said
Tom
'
Where
's
the
door
!
Good
night
!
'
He
had
another
odd
dream
of
being
taken
by
a
waiter
through
a
mist
,
which
,
after
giving
him
some
trouble
and
difficulty
,
resolved
itself
into
the
main
street
,
in
which
he
stood
alone
.
He
then
walked
home
pretty
easily
,
though
not
yet
free
from
an
impression
of
the
presence
and
influence
of
his
new
friend
--
as
if
he
were
lounging
somewhere
in
the
air
,
in
the
same
negligent
attitude
,
regarding
him
with
the
same
look
.
The
whelp
went
home
,
and
went
to
bed
.
If
he
had
had
any
sense
of
what
he
had
done
that
night
,
and
had
been
less
of
a
whelp
and
more
of
a
brother
,
he
might
have
turned
short
on
the
road
,
might
have
gone
down
to
the
ill-smelling
river
that
was
dyed
black
,
might
have
gone
to
bed
in
it
for
good
and
all
,
and
have
curtained
his
head
for
ever
with
its
filthy
waters
.
