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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба
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- Стр. 662/859
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‘
I
don
’
t
know
about
that
,
’
replied
Roker
,
weighing
the
hat
by
the
brim
in
both
hands
.
‘
I
suppose
he
’
d
have
been
took
the
same
,
wherever
he
was
.
He
went
into
the
infirmary
,
this
morning
;
the
doctor
says
his
strength
is
to
be
kept
up
as
much
as
possible
;
and
the
warden
’
s
sent
him
wine
and
broth
and
that
,
from
his
own
house
.
It
’
s
not
the
warden
’
s
fault
,
you
know
,
sir
.
’
‘
Of
course
not
,
’
replied
Mr
.
Pickwick
hastily
.
‘
I
’
m
afraid
,
however
,
’
said
Roker
,
shaking
his
head
,
‘
that
it
’
s
all
up
with
him
.
I
offered
Neddy
two
six
-
penn
’
orths
to
one
upon
it
just
now
,
but
he
wouldn
’
t
take
it
,
and
quite
right
.
Thank
’
ee
,
Sir
.
Good
-
night
,
sir
.
’
‘
Stay
,
’
said
Mr
.
Pickwick
earnestly
.
‘
Where
is
this
infirmary
?
’
‘
Just
over
where
you
slept
,
sir
,
’
replied
Roker
.
‘
I
’
ll
show
you
,
if
you
like
to
come
.
’
Mr
.
Pickwick
snatched
up
his
hat
without
speaking
,
and
followed
at
once
.
The
turnkey
led
the
way
in
silence
;
and
gently
raising
the
latch
of
the
room
door
,
motioned
Mr
.
Pickwick
to
enter
.
It
was
a
large
,
bare
,
desolate
room
,
with
a
number
of
stump
bedsteads
made
of
iron
,
on
one
of
which
lay
stretched
the
shadow
of
a
man
—
wan
,
pale
,
and
ghastly
.
His
breathing
was
hard
and
thick
,
and
he
moaned
painfully
as
it
came
and
went
.
At
the
bedside
sat
a
short
old
man
in
a
cobbler
’
s
apron
,
who
,
by
the
aid
of
a
pair
of
horn
spectacles
,
was
reading
from
the
Bible
aloud
.
It
was
the
fortunate
legatee
.
The
sick
man
laid
his
hand
upon
his
attendant
’
s
arm
,
and
motioned
him
to
stop
.
He
closed
the
book
,
and
laid
it
on
the
bed
.
‘
Open
the
window
,
’
said
the
sick
man
.
He
did
so
.
The
noise
of
carriages
and
carts
,
the
rattle
of
wheels
,
the
cries
of
men
and
boys
,
all
the
busy
sounds
of
a
mighty
multitude
instinct
with
life
and
occupation
,
blended
into
one
deep
murmur
,
floated
into
the
room
.
