But no crying, or talking, or hoping, or fearing, could keep off the dreaded Saturday afternoon, or Newman Noggs either; who, punctual to his time, limped up to the door, and breathed a whiff of cordial gin through the keyhole, exactly as such of the church clocks in the neighbourhood as agreed among themselves about the time, struck five. Newman waited for the last stroke, and then knocked.
‘From Mr. Ralph Nickleby,’ said Newman, announcing his errand, when he got upstairs, with all possible brevity.
‘We shall be ready directly,’ said Kate. ‘We have not much to carry, but I fear we must have a coach.’
‘I’ll get one,’ replied Newman.
‘Indeed you shall not trouble yourself,’ said Mrs. Nickleby.
‘I will,’ said Newman.
‘I can’t suffer you to think of such a thing,’ said Mrs. Nickleby.
‘You can’t help it,’ said Newman.
‘Not help it!’
‘No; I thought of it as I came along; but didn’t get one, thinking you mightn’t be ready. I think of a great many things. Nobody can prevent that.’