-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Чарльз Диккенс
-
- Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба
-
- Стр. 141/859
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
‘
And
how
,
’
said
Mr
.
Pickwick
,
when
he
had
grasped
his
followers
by
the
hand
,
and
exchanged
warm
salutations
of
welcome
—
‘
how
is
Tupman
?
’
Mr
.
Winkle
,
to
whom
the
question
was
more
peculiarly
addressed
,
made
no
reply
.
He
turned
away
his
head
,
and
appeared
absorbed
in
melancholy
reflection
.
‘
Snodgrass
,
’
said
Mr
.
Pickwick
earnestly
,
‘
how
is
our
friend
—
he
is
not
ill
?
’
‘
No
,
’
replied
Mr
.
Snodgrass
;
and
a
tear
trembled
on
his
sentimental
eyelid
,
like
a
rain
-
drop
on
a
window
-
frame
–
‘
no
;
he
is
not
ill
.
’
Mr
.
Pickwick
stopped
,
and
gazed
on
each
of
his
friends
in
turn
.
‘
Winkle
—
Snodgrass
,
’
said
Mr
.
Pickwick
;
‘
what
does
this
mean
?
Where
is
our
friend
?
What
has
happened
?
Speak
—
I
conjure
,
I
entreat
—
nay
,
I
command
you
,
speak
.
’
There
was
a
solemnity
—
a
dignity
—
in
Mr
.
Pickwick
’
s
manner
,
not
to
be
withstood
.
‘
He
is
gone
,
’
said
Mr
.
Snodgrass
.
‘
Gone
!
’
exclaimed
Mr
.
Pickwick
.
‘
Gone
!
’
