-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Чарльз Диккенс
-
- Оливер Твист
-
- Стр. 275/420
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
'
Good
!
'
'
And
the
time
,
night
.
'
'
Yes
.
'
'
And
the
place
,
the
crazy
hole
,
wherever
it
was
,
in
which
miserable
drabs
brought
forth
the
life
and
health
so
often
denied
to
themselves
--
gave
birth
to
puling
children
for
the
parish
to
rear
;
and
hid
their
shame
,
rot
'em
in
the
grave
!
'
'
The
lying-in
room
,
I
suppose
?
'
said
Mr.
Bumble
,
not
quite
following
the
stranger
's
excited
description
.
'
Yes
,
'
said
the
stranger
.
'
A
boy
was
born
there
.
'
'
A
many
boys
,
'
observed
Mr.
Bumble
,
shaking
his
head
,
despondingly
.
'
A
murrain
on
the
young
devils
!
'
cried
the
stranger
;
'
I
speak
of
one
;
a
meek-looking
,
pale-faced
boy
,
who
was
apprenticed
down
here
,
to
a
coffin-maker
--
I
wish
he
had
made
his
coffin
,
and
screwed
his
body
in
it
--
and
who
afterwards
ran
away
to
London
,
as
it
was
supposed
.
'
Why
,
you
mean
Oliver
!
Young
Twist
!
'
said
Mr.
Bumble
;
'
I
remember
him
,
of
course
.
There
was
n't
a
obstinater
young
rascal
--
'
'
It
's
not
of
him
I
want
to
hear
;
I
've
heard
enough
of
him
,
'
said
the
stranger
,
stopping
Mr.
Bumble
in
the
outset
of
a
tirade
on
the
subject
of
poor
Oliver
's
vices
.
'
It
's
of
a
woman
;
the
hag
that
nursed
his
mother
.
Where
is
she
?
'
