'No, no, count,' said the lady, 'Pick-wick.'
'Ah, ah, I see,' replied the count. 'Peek--christian name;
Weeks--surname; good, ver good. Peek Weeks. How you do, Weeks?'
'Quite well, I thank you,' replied Mr. Pickwick, with all his
usual affability. 'Have you been long in England?'
'Long--ver long time--fortnight--more.'
'Do you stay here long?'
'One week.'
'You will have enough to do,' said Mr. Pickwick smiling, 'to
gather all the materials you want in that time.'
'Eh, they are gathered,' said the count.
'Indeed!' said Mr. Pickwick.
'They are here,' added the count, tapping his forehead
significantly. 'Large book at home--full of notes--music,
picture, science, potry, poltic; all tings.'
'The word politics, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'comprises in
itself, a difficult study of no inconsiderable magnitude.'
'Ah!' said the count, drawing out the tablets again, 'ver good
--fine words to begin a chapter. Chapter forty-seven. Poltics.
The word poltic surprises by himself--' And down went Mr.
Pickwick's remark, in Count Smorltork's tablets, with such
variations and additions as the count's exuberant fancy suggested,
or his imperfect knowledge of the language occasioned.
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