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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба
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- Стр. 762/859
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The
landlord
made
a
strong
effort
,
and
at
length
replied
,
‘
Well
,
Sir
,
I
do
not
know
you
.
’
‘
Great
Heaven
!
’
said
the
stranger
,
dashing
his
clenched
fist
upon
the
table
.
‘
And
this
is
popularity
!
’
The
landlord
took
a
step
or
two
towards
the
door
;
the
stranger
fixing
his
eyes
upon
him
,
resumed
.
‘
This
,
’
said
the
stranger
—
‘
this
is
gratitude
for
years
of
labour
and
study
in
behalf
of
the
masses
.
I
alight
wet
and
weary
;
no
enthusiastic
crowds
press
forward
to
greet
their
champion
;
the
church
bells
are
silent
;
the
very
name
elicits
no
responsive
feeling
in
their
torpid
bosoms
.
It
is
enough
,
’
said
the
agitated
Mr
.
Slurk
,
pacing
to
and
fro
,
‘
to
curdle
the
ink
in
one
’
s
pen
,
and
induce
one
to
abandon
their
cause
for
ever
.
’
‘
Did
you
say
brandy
-
and
-
water
,
Sir
?
’
said
the
landlord
,
venturing
a
hint
.
‘
Rum
,
’
said
Mr
.
Slurk
,
turning
fiercely
upon
him
.
‘
Have
you
got
a
fire
anywhere
?
’
‘
We
can
light
one
directly
,
Sir
,
’
said
the
landlord
.
‘
Which
will
throw
out
no
heat
until
it
is
bed
-
time
,
’
interrupted
Mr
.
Slurk
.
‘
Is
there
anybody
in
the
kitchen
?
’
Not
a
soul
.
There
was
a
beautiful
fire
.
Everybody
had
gone
,
and
the
house
door
was
closed
for
the
night
.
