-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Чарльз Диккенс
-
- Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба
-
- Стр. 230/859
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
‘
Because
they
live
one
hundred
miles
from
here
,
sir
,
’
responded
Job
Trotter
.
‘
That
’
s
a
clincher
,
’
said
Mr
.
Weller
,
aside
.
‘
Then
this
garden
,
’
resumed
Mr
.
Pickwick
.
‘
How
am
I
to
get
into
it
?
’
‘
The
wall
is
very
low
,
sir
,
and
your
servant
will
give
you
a
leg
up
.
’
‘
My
servant
will
give
me
a
leg
up
,
’
repeated
Mr
.
Pickwick
mechanically
.
‘
You
will
be
sure
to
be
near
this
door
that
you
speak
of
?
’
‘
You
cannot
mistake
it
,
Sir
;
it
’
s
the
only
one
that
opens
into
the
garden
.
Tap
at
it
when
you
hear
the
clock
strike
,
and
I
will
open
it
instantly
.
’
‘
I
don
’
t
like
the
plan
,
’
said
Mr
.
Pickwick
;
‘
but
as
I
see
no
other
,
and
as
the
happiness
of
this
young
lady
’
s
whole
life
is
at
stake
,
I
adopt
it
.
I
shall
be
sure
to
be
there
.
’
Thus
,
for
the
second
time
,
did
Mr
.
Pickwick
’
s
innate
good
-
feeling
involve
him
in
an
enterprise
from
which
he
would
most
willingly
have
stood
aloof
.
‘
What
is
the
name
of
the
house
?
’
inquired
Mr
.
Pickwick
.
‘
Westgate
House
,
Sir
.
You
turn
a
little
to
the
right
when
you
get
to
the
end
of
the
town
;
it
stands
by
itself
,
some
little
distance
off
the
high
road
,
with
the
name
on
a
brass
plate
on
the
gate
.
’
‘
I
know
it
,
’
said
Mr
.
Pickwick
.
‘
I
observed
it
once
before
,
when
I
was
in
this
town
.
You
may
depend
upon
me
.
’
