He had to go somewhere.

Perhaps it was his destiny to secure Ann against further feather-beds.

Anyway, he accepted it.
"Oh, goody!" cried Ann, clapping her hands.
"Ann! put your hands under those clothes.

How often must I tell you that you'll get your death?
If you like, Doctor, there's nothing to prevent your moving in to-morrow.

I'll need a day to air the feather-tick and make some pie." The doctor was at last roused to action.
"There are conditions," he said hastily.