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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба
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- Стр. 805/859
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‘
The
fact
is
,
that
my
daughter
Bella
—
Bella
,
who
married
young
Trundle
,
you
know
.
’
‘
Yes
,
yes
,
we
know
,
’
said
Mr
.
Pickwick
impatiently
.
‘
Don
’
t
alarm
me
at
the
very
beginning
.
My
daughter
Bella
—
Emily
having
gone
to
bed
with
a
headache
after
she
had
read
Arabella
’
s
letter
to
me
—
sat
herself
down
by
my
side
the
other
evening
,
and
began
to
talk
over
this
marriage
affair
.
"
Well
,
pa
,
"
she
says
,
"
what
do
you
think
of
it
?
"
"
Why
,
my
dear
,
"
I
said
,
"
I
suppose
it
’
s
all
very
well
;
I
hope
it
’
s
for
the
best
.
"
I
answered
in
this
way
because
I
was
sitting
before
the
fire
at
the
time
,
drinking
my
grog
rather
thoughtfully
,
and
I
knew
my
throwing
in
an
undecided
word
now
and
then
,
would
induce
her
to
continue
talking
.
Both
my
girls
are
pictures
of
their
dear
mother
,
and
as
I
grow
old
I
like
to
sit
with
only
them
by
me
;
for
their
voices
and
looks
carry
me
back
to
the
happiest
period
of
my
life
,
and
make
me
,
for
the
moment
,
as
young
as
I
used
to
be
then
,
though
not
quite
so
light
-
hearted
.
"
It
’
s
quite
a
marriage
of
affection
,
pa
,
"
said
Bella
,
after
a
short
silence
.
"
Yes
,
my
dear
,
"
said
I
,
"
but
such
marriages
do
not
always
turn
out
the
happiest
.
"
’
‘
I
question
that
,
mind
!
’
interposed
Mr
.
Pickwick
warmly
.
‘
Very
good
,
’
responded
Wardle
,
‘
question
anything
you
like
when
it
’
s
your
turn
to
speak
,
but
don
’
t
interrupt
me
.
’
‘
I
beg
your
pardon
,
’
said
Mr
.
Pickwick
.
‘
Granted
,
’
replied
Wardle
.
‘
"
I
am
sorry
to
hear
you
express
your
opinion
against
marriages
of
affection
,
pa
,
"
said
Bella
,
colouring
a
little
.
"
I
was
wrong
;
I
ought
not
to
have
said
so
,
my
dear
,
either
,
"
said
I
,
patting
her
cheek
as
kindly
as
a
rough
old
fellow
like
me
could
pat
it
,
"
for
your
mother
’
s
was
one
,
and
so
was
yours
.
"
"
It
’
s
not
that
I
meant
,
pa
,
"
said
Bella
.
"
The
fact
is
,
pa
,
I
wanted
to
speak
to
you
about
Emily
.
"
’
Mr
.
Pickwick
started
.
‘
What
’
s
the
matter
now
?
’
inquired
Wardle
,
stopping
in
his
narrative
.
‘
Nothing
,
‘
replied
Mr
.
Pickwick
.
‘
Pray
go
on
.
’
