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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба
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- Стр. 232/859
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There
was
a
bright
moon
,
but
it
was
behind
the
clouds
.
it
was
a
fine
dry
night
,
but
it
was
most
uncommonly
dark
.
Paths
,
hedges
,
fields
,
houses
,
and
trees
,
were
enveloped
in
one
deep
shade
.
The
atmosphere
was
hot
and
sultry
,
the
summer
lightning
quivered
faintly
on
the
verge
of
the
horizon
,
and
was
the
only
sight
that
varied
the
dull
gloom
in
which
everything
was
wrapped
—
sound
there
was
none
,
except
the
distant
barking
of
some
restless
house
-
dog
.
They
found
the
house
,
read
the
brass
plate
,
walked
round
the
wall
,
and
stopped
at
that
portion
of
it
which
divided
them
from
the
bottom
of
the
garden
.
‘
You
will
return
to
the
inn
,
Sam
,
when
you
have
assisted
me
over
,
’
said
Mr
.
Pickwick
.
‘
Wery
well
,
Sir
.
’
‘
And
you
will
sit
up
,
till
I
return
.
’
‘
Cert
’
nly
,
Sir
.
’
‘
Take
hold
of
my
leg
;
and
,
when
I
say
"
Over
,
"
raise
me
gently
.
’
‘
All
right
,
sir
.
’
Having
settled
these
preliminaries
,
Mr
.
Pickwick
grasped
the
top
of
the
wall
,
and
gave
the
word
‘
Over
,
’
which
was
literally
obeyed
.
Whether
his
body
partook
in
some
degree
of
the
elasticity
of
his
mind
,
or
whether
Mr
.
Weller
’
s
notions
of
a
gentle
push
were
of
a
somewhat
rougher
description
than
Mr
.
Pickwick
’
s
,
the
immediate
effect
of
his
assistance
was
to
jerk
that
immortal
gentleman
completely
over
the
wall
on
to
the
bed
beneath
,
where
,
after
crushing
three
gooseberry
-
bushes
and
a
rose
-
tree
,
he
finally
alighted
at
full
length
.
‘
You
ha
’
n
’
t
hurt
yourself
,
I
hope
,
Sir
?
’
said
Sam
,
in
a
loud
whisper
,
as
soon
as
he
had
recovered
from
the
surprise
consequent
upon
the
mysterious
disappearance
of
his
master
.
