‘Ah,’ said the old man, patting her on the head, and speaking as affectionately as if she had been his favourite child. ‘Poor dear! what do you think of this, brother Ned? Madeline has only written to her once, only once, Ned, and she didn’t think she would have forgotten her quite so soon, Ned.’

‘My dear,’ Mrs Nickleby would say, coming into the room with an elaborate caution, calculated to discompose the nerves of an invalid rather more than the entry of a horse–soldier at full gallop; ‘how do you find yourself tonight? I hope you are better.’