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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Лавка древностей
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- Стр. 382/459
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‘
Drink
of
this
cup
,
you
’
ll
find
there
’
s
a
spell
in
its
every
drop
‘
gainst
the
ills
of
mortality
.
Talk
of
the
cordial
that
sparkled
for
Helen
!
Her
cup
was
a
fiction
,
but
this
is
reality
(
Barclay
and
Co
.
‘
s
)
.
—
If
they
ever
send
it
in
a
flat
state
,
complain
to
the
Governor
.
Yours
,
R
.
S
.
’
‘
R
.
S
.
!
’
said
Kit
,
after
some
consideration
.
‘
It
must
be
Mr
Richard
Swiveller
.
Well
,
its
very
kind
of
him
,
and
I
thank
him
heartily
.
’
Afaint
light
,
twinkling
from
the
window
of
the
counting
-
house
on
Quilp
’
s
wharf
,
and
looking
inflamed
and
red
through
the
night
-
fog
,
as
though
it
suffered
from
it
like
an
eye
,
forewarned
Mr
Sampson
Brass
,
as
he
approached
the
wooden
cabin
with
a
cautious
step
,
that
the
excellent
proprietor
,
his
esteemed
client
,
was
inside
,
and
probably
waiting
with
his
accustomed
patience
and
sweetness
of
temper
the
fulfilment
of
the
appointment
which
now
brought
Mr
Brass
within
his
fair
domain
.
‘
A
treacherous
place
to
pick
one
’
s
steps
in
,
of
a
dark
night
,
’
muttered
Sampson
,
as
he
stumbled
for
the
twentieth
time
over
some
stray
lumber
,
and
limped
in
pain
.
‘
I
believe
that
boy
strews
the
ground
differently
every
day
,
on
purpose
to
bruise
and
maim
one
;
unless
his
master
does
it
with
his
own
hands
,
which
is
more
than
likely
.
I
hate
to
come
to
this
place
without
Sally
.
She
’
s
more
protection
than
a
dozen
men
.
’
As
he
paid
this
compliment
to
the
merit
of
the
absent
charmer
,
Mr
Brass
came
to
a
halt
;
looking
doubtfully
towards
the
light
,
and
over
his
shoulder
.
‘
What
’
s
he
about
,
I
wonder
?
’
murmured
the
lawyer
,
standing
on
tiptoe
,
and
endeavouring
to
obtain
a
glimpse
of
what
was
passing
inside
,
which
at
that
distance
was
impossible
—
‘
drinking
,
I
suppose
,
—
making
himself
more
fiery
and
furious
,
and
heating
his
malice
and
mischievousness
till
they
boil
.
I
’
m
always
afraid
to
come
here
by
myself
,
when
his
account
’
s
a
pretty
large
one
.
I
don
’
t
believe
he
’
d
mind
throttling
me
,
and
dropping
me
softly
into
the
river
when
the
tide
was
at
its
strongest
,
any
more
than
he
’
d
mind
killing
a
rat
—
indeed
I
don
’
t
know
whether
he
wouldn
’
t
consider
it
a
pleasant
joke
.
Hark
!
Now
he
’
s
singing
!
’
Mr
Quilp
was
certainly
entertaining
himself
with
vocal
exercise
,
but
it
was
rather
a
kind
of
chant
than
a
song
;
being
a
monotonous
repetition
of
one
sentence
in
a
very
rapid
manner
,
with
a
long
stress
upon
the
last
word
,
which
he
swelled
into
a
dismal
roar
.
Nor
did
the
burden
of
this
performance
bear
any
reference
to
love
,
or
war
,
or
wine
,
or
loyalty
,
or
any
other
,
the
standard
topics
of
song
,
but
to
a
subject
not
often
set
to
music
or
generally
known
in
ballads
;
the
words
being
these
:
—
‘
The
worthy
magistrate
,
after
remarking
that
the
prisoner
would
find
some
difficulty
in
persuading
a
jury
to
believe
his
tale
,
committed
him
to
take
his
trial
at
the
approaching
sessions
;
and
directed
the
customary
recognisances
to
be
entered
into
for
the
pros
-
e
-
cu
-
tion
.
’
Every
time
he
came
to
this
concluding
word
,
and
had
exhausted
all
possible
stress
upon
it
,
Quilp
burst
into
a
shriek
of
laughter
,
and
began
again
.
‘
He
’
s
dreadfully
imprudent
,
’
muttered
Brass
,
after
he
had
listened
to
two
or
three
repetitions
of
the
chant
.
‘
Horribly
imprudent
.
I
wish
he
was
dumb
.
I
wish
he
was
deaf
.
I
wish
he
was
blind
.
Hang
him
,
’
cried
Brass
,
as
the
chant
began
again
.
