There was one family in particular, that used to live about a mile from us--not straight down the road, but turning sharp off to the left by the turnpike where the Plymouth mail ran over the donkey--that were quite extraordinary people for giving the most extravagant parties, with artificial flowers and champagne, and variegated lamps, and, in short, every delicacy of eating and drinking that the most singular epicure could possibly require.

I don't think that there ever were such people as those Peltiroguses.

You remember the Peltiroguses, Kate ?' Kate saw that for the ease and comfort of the visitors it was high time to stay this flood of recollection, so answered that she entertained of the Peltiroguses a most vivid and distinct remembrance; and then said that Mr Browdie had half promised, early in the evening, that he would sing a Yorkshire song, and that she was most impatient that he should redeem his promise, because she was sure it would afford her mama more amusement and pleasure than it was possible to express.
Mrs Nickleby confirming her daughter with the best possible grace--for there was patronage in that too, and a kind of implication that she had a discerning taste in such matters, and was something of a critic--John Browdie proceeded to consider the words of some north-country ditty, and to take his wife's recollection respecting the same.

This done, he made divers ungainly movements in his chair, and singling out one particular fly on the ceiling from the other flies there asleep, fixed his eyes upon him, and began to roar a meek sentiment (supposed to be uttered by a gentle swain fast pining away with love and despair) in a voice of thunder.
At the end of the first verse, as though some person without had waited until then to make himself audible, was heard a loud and violent knocking at the street-door; so loud and so violent, indeed, that the ladies started as by one accord, and John Browdie stopped.
'It must be some mistake,' said Nicholas, carelessly.

'We know nobody who would come here at this hour.' Mrs Nickleby surmised, however, that perhaps the counting-house was burnt down, or perhaps 'the Mr Cheerybles' had sent to take Nicholas into partnership (which certainly appeared highly probable at that time of night), or perhaps Mr Linkinwater had run away with the property, or perhaps Miss La Creevy was taken in, or perhaps-- But a hasty exclamation from Kate stopped her abruptly in her conjectures, and Ralph Nickleby walked into the room.
'Stay,' said Ralph, as Nicholas rose, and Kate, making her way towards him, threw herself upon his arm.