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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба
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- Стр. 477/859
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‘
Stop
,
’
said
Mr
.
Weller
,
ringing
the
bell
.
‘
A
double
glass
o
’
the
inwariable
,
my
dear
.
’
‘
Very
well
,
Sir
,
’
replied
the
girl
;
who
with
great
quickness
appeared
,
vanished
,
returned
,
and
disappeared
.
‘
They
seem
to
know
your
ways
here
,
’
observed
Sam
.
‘
Yes
,
’
replied
his
father
,
‘
I
’
ve
been
here
before
,
in
my
time
.
Go
on
,
Sammy
.
’
‘
"
Lovely
creetur
,
"
’
repeated
Sam
.
‘
‘
Tain
’
t
in
poetry
,
is
it
?
’
interposed
his
father
.
‘
No
,
no
,
’
replied
Sam
.
‘
Wery
glad
to
hear
it
,
’
said
Mr
.
Weller
.
‘
Poetry
’
s
unnat
’
ral
;
no
man
ever
talked
poetry
‘
cept
a
beadle
on
boxin
’
-
day
,
or
Warren
’
s
blackin
’
,
or
Rowland
’
s
oil
,
or
some
of
them
low
fellows
;
never
you
let
yourself
down
to
talk
poetry
,
my
boy
.
Begin
agin
,
Sammy
.
’
Mr
.
Weller
resumed
his
pipe
with
critical
solemnity
,
and
Sam
once
more
commenced
,
and
read
as
follows
:
‘
"
Lovely
creetur
I
feel
myself
a
damned
—
"
’
‘
That
ain
’
t
proper
,
’
said
Mr
.
Weller
,
taking
his
pipe
from
his
mouth
.
