Meantime the fools bring grist
to my mill, so let them live out their day, and the longer it is, the
better.'
These agreeable reflections occurred to Ralph Nickleby, as sundry small
caresses and endearments, supposed to be unseen, were exchanged between
the objects of his thoughts.
'If you have nothing more to say, my dear, to Mr Nickleby,' said Madame
Mantalini, 'we will take our leaves. I am sure we have detained him much
too long already.'
Mr Mantalini answered, in the first instance, by tapping Madame
Mantalini several times on the nose, and then, by remarking in words
that he had nothing more to say.
'Demmit! I have, though,' he added almost immediately, drawing Ralph
into a corner. 'Here's an affair about your friend Sir Mulberry. Such a
demd extraordinary out-of-the-way kind of thing as never was--eh?'
'What do you mean?' asked Ralph.
'Don't you know, demmit?' asked Mr Mantalini.
'I see by the paper that he was thrown from his cabriolet last night,
and severely injured, and that his life is in some danger,' answered
Ralph with great composure; 'but I see nothing extraordinary in
that--accidents are not miraculous events, when men live hard, and drive
after dinner.
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