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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба
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- Стр. 317/859
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Never
was
such
labyrinths
of
uncarpeted
passages
,
such
clusters
of
mouldy
,
ill
-
lighted
rooms
,
such
huge
numbers
of
small
dens
for
eating
or
sleeping
in
,
beneath
any
one
roof
,
as
are
collected
together
between
the
four
walls
of
the
Great
White
Horse
at
Ipswich
.
It
was
at
the
door
of
this
overgrown
tavern
that
the
London
coach
stopped
,
at
the
same
hour
every
evening
;
and
it
was
from
this
same
London
coach
that
Mr
.
Pickwick
,
Sam
Weller
,
and
Mr
.
Peter
Magnus
dismounted
,
on
the
particular
evening
to
which
this
chapter
of
our
history
bears
reference
.
‘
Do
you
stop
here
,
sir
?
’
inquired
Mr
.
Peter
Magnus
,
when
the
striped
bag
,
and
the
red
bag
,
and
the
brown
-
paper
parcel
,
and
the
leather
hat
-
box
,
had
all
been
deposited
in
the
passage
.
‘
Do
you
stop
here
,
sir
?
’
‘
I
do
,
’
said
Mr
.
Pickwick
.
‘
Dear
me
,
’
said
Mr
.
Magnus
,
‘
I
never
knew
anything
like
these
extraordinary
coincidences
.
Why
,
I
stop
here
too
.
I
hope
we
dine
together
?
’
‘
With
pleasure
,
’
replied
Mr
.
Pickwick
.
‘
I
am
not
quite
certain
whether
I
have
any
friends
here
or
not
,
though
.
Is
there
any
gentleman
of
the
name
of
Tupman
here
,
waiter
?
’
A
corpulent
man
,
with
a
fortnight
’
s
napkin
under
his
arm
,
and
coeval
stockings
on
his
legs
,
slowly
desisted
from
his
occupation
of
staring
down
the
street
,
on
this
question
being
put
to
him
by
Mr
.
Pickwick
;
and
,
after
minutely
inspecting
that
gentleman
’
s
appearance
,
from
the
crown
of
his
hat
to
the
lowest
button
of
his
gaiters
,
replied
emphatically
—
‘
No
!
’
‘
Nor
any
gentleman
of
the
name
of
Snodgrass
?
’
inquired
Mr
.
Pickwick
.
