The deep stupor seemed to pass, and he began to moan.
Miss Winwood and the housekeeper stood by his side.

The Archdeacon, his hands behind his back, paced the noiseless Turkey carpet.

"I hope," said he, "your doctor will not be long in coming." "It looks like a sunstroke," the housekeeper remarked, as her mistress scrutinized the clinical thermometer.
"It doesn't," said Miss Winwood bluntly.

"In sunstroke the face is either congested or clammy.

I know that much.