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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба
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- Стр. 418/859
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‘
How
it
snows
!
’
said
one
of
the
men
,
in
a
low
tone
.
‘
Snows
,
does
it
?
’
said
Wardle
.
‘
Rough
,
cold
night
,
Sir
,
’
replied
the
man
;
‘
and
there
’
s
a
wind
got
up
,
that
drifts
it
across
the
fields
,
in
a
thick
white
cloud
.
’
‘
What
does
Jem
say
?
’
inquired
the
old
lady
.
‘
There
ain
’
t
anything
the
matter
,
is
there
?
’
‘
No
,
no
,
mother
,
’
replied
Wardle
;
‘
he
says
there
’
s
a
snowdrift
,
and
a
wind
that
’
s
piercing
cold
.
I
should
know
that
,
by
the
way
it
rumbles
in
the
chimney
.
’
‘
Ah
!
’
said
the
old
lady
,
‘
there
was
just
such
a
wind
,
and
just
such
a
fall
of
snow
,
a
good
many
years
back
,
I
recollect
—
just
five
years
before
your
poor
father
died
.
It
was
a
Christmas
Eve
,
too
;
and
I
remember
that
on
that
very
night
he
told
us
the
story
about
the
goblins
that
carried
away
old
Gabriel
Grub
.
’
‘
The
story
about
what
?
’
said
Mr
.
Pickwick
‘
Oh
,
nothing
,
nothing
,
’
replied
Wardle
.
‘
About
an
old
sexton
,
that
the
good
people
down
here
suppose
to
have
been
carried
away
by
goblins
.
’
‘
Suppose
!
’
ejaculated
the
old
lady
.
‘
Is
there
anybody
hardy
enough
to
disbelieve
it
?
Suppose
!
Haven
’
t
you
heard
ever
since
you
were
a
child
,
that
he
WAS
carried
away
by
the
goblins
,
and
don
’
t
you
know
he
was
?
’
‘
Very
well
,
mother
,
he
was
,
if
you
like
,
’
said
Wardle
laughing
.
‘
He
WAS
carried
away
by
goblins
,
Pickwick
;
and
there
’
s
an
end
of
the
matter
.
’
