Could I ever be happy again, Nicholas ?' Despite his vexation and concern, Nicholas could scarcely help smiling, as he rejoined, 'Now, do you think, mother, that such a result would be likely to ensue from the most cruel repulse ?' 'Upon my word, my dear, I don't know,' returned Mrs Nickleby; 'really, I don't know.

I am sure there was a case in the day before yesterday's paper, extracted from one of the French newspapers, about a journeyman shoemaker who was jealous of a young girl in an adjoining village, because she wouldn't shut herself up in an air-tight three-pair-of-stairs, and charcoal herself to death with him; and who went and hid himself in a wood with a sharp-pointed knife, and rushed out, as she was passing by with a few friends, and killed himself first, and then all the friends, and then her--no, killed all the friends first, and then herself, and then HIMself--which it is quite frightful to think of.

Somehow or other,' added Mrs Nickleby, after a momentary pause, 'they always ARE journeyman shoemakers who do these things in France, according to the papers.

I don't know how it is--something in the leather, I suppose.' 'But this man, who is not a shoemaker--what has he done, mother, what has he said ?' inquired Nicholas, fretted almost beyond endurance, but looking nearly as resigned and patient as Mrs Nickleby herself.

'You know, there is no language of vegetables, which converts a cucumber into a formal declaration of attachment.' 'My dear,' replied Mrs Nickleby, tossing her head and looking at the ashes in the grate, 'he has done and said all sorts of things.' 'Is there no mistake on your part ?' asked Nicholas.
'Mistake!' cried Mrs Nickleby.