The Pickwick Papers. Чарльз Диккенс

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a very lucky man.” As Tom said this, his eye involuntarily wandered from the widow’s face to the comfort around him.

      ‘The widow looked more puzzled than ever, and made an effort to rise. Tom gently pressed her hand, as if to detain her, and she kept her seat. Widows, gentlemen, are not usually timorous, as my uncle used to say.

      ‘“I am sure I am very much obliged to you, Sir, for your good opinion,” said the buxom landlady, half laughing; “and if ever I marry again – ”

      ‘“If,” said Tom Smart, looking very shrewdly out of the right-hand corner of his left eye. “If– ”

      “Well,” said the widow, laughing outright this time, “when I do, I hope I shall have as good a husband as you describe.”

      ‘“Jinkins, to wit,” said Tom.

      ‘“Lor, sir!” exclaimed the widow.

      ‘“Oh, don’t tell me,” said Tom, “I know him.”

      ‘“I am sure nobody who knows him, knows anything bad of him,” said the widow, bridling up at the mysterious air with which Tom had spoken.

      ‘“Hem!” said Tom Smart.

      ‘The widow began to think it was high time to cry, so she took out her handkerchief, and inquired whether Tom wished to insult her, whether he thought it like a gentleman to take away the character of another gentleman behind his back, why, if he had got anything to say, he didn’t say it to the man, like a man, instead of terrifying a poor weak woman in that way; and so forth.

      ‘“I’ll say it to him fast enough,” said Tom, “only I want you to hear it first.”

      ‘“What is it?” inquired the widow, looking intently in Tom’s countenance.

      ‘“I’ll astonish you,” said Tom, putting his hand in his pocket.

      ‘“If it is, that he wants money,” said the widow, “I know that already, and you needn’t trouble yourself.” ‘“Pooh, nonsense, that’s nothing,” said Tom Smart, “I want money. ‘Tain’t that.”

      ‘“Oh, dear, what can it be?” exclaimed the poor widow.

      ‘“Don’t be frightened,” said Tom Smart. He slowly drew forth the letter, and unfolded it. “You won’t scream?” said Tom doubtfully.

      ‘“No, no,” replied the widow; “let me see it.”

      ‘“You won’t go fainting away, or any of that nonsense?” said Tom.

      ‘“No, no,” returned the widow hastily.

      ‘“And don’t run out, and blow him up,” said Tom; “because I’ll do all that for you. You had better not exert yourself.”

      ‘“Well, well,” said the widow, “let me see it.”

      ‘“I will,” replied Tom Smart; and, with these words, he placed the letter in the widow’s hand.

      ‘Gentlemen, I have heard my uncle say, that Tom Smart said the widow’s lamentations when she heard the disclosure would have pierced a heart of stone. Tom was certainly very tender-hearted, but they pierced his, to the very core. The widow rocked herself to and fro, and wrung her hands.

      ‘“Oh, the deception and villainy of the man!” said the widow.

      ‘“Frightful, my dear ma’am; but compose yourself,” said Tom Smart.

      ‘“Oh, I can’t compose myself,” shrieked the widow. “I shall never find anyone else I can love so much!”

      ‘“Oh, yes you will, my dear soul,” said Tom Smart, letting fall a shower of the largest-sized tears, in pity for the widow’s misfortunes. Tom Smart, in the energy of his compassion, had put his arm round the widow’s waist; and the widow, in a passion of grief, had clasped Tom’s hand. She looked up in Tom’s face, and smiled through her tears. Tom looked down in hers, and smiled through his.

      ‘I never could find out, gentlemen, whether Tom did or did not kiss the widow at that particular moment. He used to tell my uncle he didn’t, but I have my doubts about it. Between ourselves, gentlemen, I rather think he did.

      ‘At all events, Tom kicked the very tall man out at the front door half an hour later, and married the widow a month after. And he used to drive about the country, with the clay-coloured gig with the red wheels, and the vixenish mare with the fast pace, till he gave up business many years afterwards, and went to France with his wife; and then the old house was pulled down.’

      ‘Will you allow me to ask you,’ said the inquisitive old gentleman, ‘what became of the chair?’

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      A remarkable instance of the prophetic force of Mr. Jingle’s imagination; this dialogue occurring in the year 1827, and the Revolution in 1830.

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