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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба
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- Стр. 328/859
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He
paused
when
he
got
outside
the
door
—
shook
his
head
—
walked
on
—
stopped
—
snuffed
the
candle
—
shook
his
head
again
—
and
finally
proceeded
slowly
to
his
chamber
,
apparently
buried
in
the
profoundest
meditation
.
In
a
small
room
in
the
vicinity
of
the
stableyard
,
betimes
in
the
morning
,
which
was
ushered
in
by
Mr
.
Pickwick
’
s
adventure
with
the
middle
—
aged
lady
in
the
yellow
curl
-
papers
,
sat
Mr
.
Weller
,
senior
,
preparing
himself
for
his
journey
to
London
.
He
was
sitting
in
an
excellent
attitude
for
having
his
portrait
taken
;
and
here
it
is
.
It
is
very
possible
that
at
some
earlier
period
of
his
career
,
Mr
.
Weller
’
s
profile
might
have
presented
a
bold
and
determined
outline
.
His
face
,
however
,
had
expanded
under
the
influence
of
good
living
,
and
a
disposition
remarkable
for
resignation
;
and
its
bold
,
fleshy
curves
had
so
far
extended
beyond
the
limits
originally
assigned
them
,
that
unless
you
took
a
full
view
of
his
countenance
in
front
,
it
was
difficult
to
distinguish
more
than
the
extreme
tip
of
a
very
rubicund
nose
.
His
chin
,
from
the
same
cause
,
had
acquired
the
grave
and
imposing
form
which
is
generally
described
by
prefixing
the
word
‘
double
’
to
that
expressive
feature
;
and
his
complexion
exhibited
that
peculiarly
mottled
combination
of
colours
which
is
only
to
be
seen
in
gentlemen
of
his
profession
,
and
in
underdone
roast
beef
.
Round
his
neck
he
wore
a
crimson
travelling
-
shawl
,
which
merged
into
his
chin
by
such
imperceptible
gradations
,
that
it
was
difficult
to
distinguish
the
folds
of
the
one
,
from
the
folds
of
the
other
.
Over
this
,
he
mounted
a
long
waistcoat
of
a
broad
pink
-
striped
pattern
,
and
over
that
again
,
a
wide
-
skirted
green
coat
,
ornamented
with
large
brass
buttons
,
whereof
the
two
which
garnished
the
waist
,
were
so
far
apart
,
that
no
man
had
ever
beheld
them
both
at
the
same
time
.
His
hair
,
which
was
short
,
sleek
,
and
black
,
was
just
visible
beneath
the
capacious
brim
of
a
low
-
crowned
brown
hat
.
His
legs
were
encased
in
knee
-
cord
breeches
,
and
painted
top
-
boots
;
and
a
copper
watch
-
chain
,
terminating
in
one
seal
,
and
a
key
of
the
same
material
,
dangled
loosely
from
his
capacious
waistband
.
We
have
said
that
Mr
.
Weller
was
engaged
in
preparing
for
his
journey
to
London
—
he
was
taking
sustenance
,
in
fact
.
On
the
table
before
him
,
stood
a
pot
of
ale
,
a
cold
round
of
beef
,
and
a
very
respectable
-
looking
loaf
,
to
each
of
which
he
distributed
his
favours
in
turn
,
with
the
most
rigid
impartiality
.
He
had
just
cut
a
mighty
slice
from
the
latter
,
when
the
footsteps
of
somebody
entering
the
room
,
caused
him
to
raise
his
head
;
and
he
beheld
his
son
.
‘
Mornin
’
,
Sammy
!
’
said
the
father
.
The
son
walked
up
to
the
pot
of
ale
,
and
nodding
significantly
to
his
parent
,
took
a
long
draught
by
way
of
reply
.
‘
Wery
good
power
o
’
suction
,
Sammy
,
’
said
Mr
.
Weller
the
elder
,
looking
into
the
pot
,
when
his
first
-
born
had
set
it
down
half
empty
.
‘
You
’
d
ha
’
made
an
uncommon
fine
oyster
,
Sammy
,
if
you
’
d
been
born
in
that
station
o
’
life
.
’
‘
Yes
,
I
des
-
say
,
I
should
ha
’
managed
to
pick
up
a
respectable
livin
’
,
’
replied
Sam
applying
himself
to
the
cold
beef
,
with
considerable
vigour
.
