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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба
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- Стр. 661/859
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’
‘
Thank
you
,
’
said
Mr
.
Pickwick
.
‘
Will
you
take
a
glass
of
wine
?
’
‘
You
’
re
wery
good
,
Sir
,
’
replied
Mr
.
Roker
,
accepting
the
proffered
glass
.
‘
Yours
,
sir
.
’
‘
Thank
you
,
’
said
Mr
.
Pickwick
.
‘
I
’
m
sorry
to
say
that
your
landlord
’
s
wery
bad
to
-
night
,
Sir
,
’
said
Roker
,
setting
down
the
glass
,
and
inspecting
the
lining
of
his
hat
preparatory
to
putting
it
on
again
.
‘
What
!
The
Chancery
prisoner
!
’
exclaimed
Mr
.
Pickwick
.
‘
He
won
’
t
be
a
Chancery
prisoner
wery
long
,
Sir
,
’
replied
Roker
,
turning
his
hat
round
,
so
as
to
get
the
maker
’
s
name
right
side
upwards
,
as
he
looked
into
it
.
‘
You
make
my
blood
run
cold
,
’
said
Mr
.
Pickwick
.
‘
What
do
you
mean
?
’
‘
He
’
s
been
consumptive
for
a
long
time
past
,
’
said
Mr
.
Roker
,
‘
and
he
’
s
taken
wery
bad
in
the
breath
to
-
night
.
The
doctor
said
,
six
months
ago
,
that
nothing
but
change
of
air
could
save
him
.
’
‘
Great
Heaven
!
’
exclaimed
Mr
.
Pickwick
;
‘
has
this
man
been
slowly
murdered
by
the
law
for
six
months
?
’
