Pickwick unspeakable horror and agony, and yielded Mr.
Bob Sawyer proportionate delight.
At length the door opened, and a little old gentleman in a
snuff-coloured suit, with a head and face the precise counterpart
of those belonging to Mr. Winkle, junior, excepting that he was
rather bald, trotted into the room with Mr. Pickwick's card in
one hand, and a silver candlestick in the other.
'Mr. Pickwick, sir, how do you do?' said Winkle the elder,
putting down the candlestick and proffering his hand. 'Hope I
see you well, sir. Glad to see you. Be seated, Mr. Pickwick, I beg,
Sir. This gentleman is--'
'My friend, Mr. Sawyer,' interposed Mr. Pickwick, 'your son's friend.'
'Oh,' said Mr. Winkle the elder, looking rather grimly at Bob.
'I hope you are well, sir.'
'Right as a trivet, sir,' replied Bob Sawyer.
'This other gentleman,' cried Mr. Pickwick, 'is, as you will see
when you have read the letter with which I am intrusted, a very
near relative, or I should rather say a very particular friend of
your son's. His name is Allen.'
'THAT gentleman?' inquired Mr. Winkle, pointing with the card
towards Ben Allen, who had fallen asleep in an attitude which
left nothing of him visible but his spine and his coat collar.
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