"It's you who are shut up, and hid away from the pure air and bright sunshine in a gloomy store, delving like a mole in the dark.

The fact is, old fellow! you are killing yourself.

Turning gray, as I live!" And he touched, with his fingers, the locks of Wilkinson, in which a few gray lines were visible.
"Bad! bad!" he went on, shaking his head.

"And you are growing as thin as a lath.

When did you ride out ?" "Oh, not for two months past.