-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Чарльз Диккенс
-
- Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба
-
- Стр. 665/859
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
‘
Come
,
’
said
Sam
,
‘
none
o
’
them
taunts
agin
the
wictim
o
’
avarice
,
and
come
off
that
‘
ere
step
.
Wot
arc
you
a
-
settin
’
down
there
for
?
I
don
’
t
live
there
.
’
‘
I
’
ve
got
such
a
game
for
you
,
Sammy
,
’
said
the
elder
Mr
.
Weller
,
rising
.
‘
Stop
a
minit
,
’
said
Sam
,
‘
you
’
re
all
vite
behind
.
’
‘
That
’
s
right
,
Sammy
,
rub
it
off
,
’
said
Mr
.
Weller
,
as
his
son
dusted
him
.
‘
It
might
look
personal
here
,
if
a
man
walked
about
with
vitevash
on
his
clothes
,
eh
,
Sammy
?
’
As
Mr
.
Weller
exhibited
in
this
place
unequivocal
symptoms
of
an
approaching
fit
of
chuckling
,
Sam
interposed
to
stop
it
.
‘
Keep
quiet
,
do
,
’
said
Sam
,
‘
there
never
vos
such
a
old
picter
-
card
born
.
Wot
are
you
bustin
’
vith
,
now
?
’
‘
Sammy
,
’
said
Mr
.
Weller
,
wiping
his
forehead
,
‘
I
’
m
afeerd
that
vun
o
’
these
days
I
shall
laugh
myself
into
a
appleplexy
,
my
boy
.
’
‘
Vell
,
then
,
wot
do
you
do
it
for
?
’
said
Sam
.
‘
Now
,
then
,
wot
have
you
got
to
say
?
’
‘
Who
do
you
think
’
s
come
here
with
me
,
Samivel
?
’
said
Mr
.
Weller
,
drawing
back
a
pace
or
two
,
pursing
up
his
mouth
,
and
extending
his
eyebrows
.
‘
Pell
?
’
said
Sam
.
