"You're young; you've never been through one of these seasons.

Don't get fanciful, my good fellow.

Come here, and play with Margery." Mr.Gordon laughed.
"I am a fool, certainly," he said.

"Ever since I heard of it, I have fancied a strange, faint kind of smell everywhere, which is absurd enough." "I will make you a camphor-bag," said my mother, "that ought to overpower any faint smell, and it is a charm against infection." I believe Mr.Gordon was beginning to thank her, but his words ended in a sort of inarticulate groan.

He stood on his feet, though not upright, and at last said feebly, "I beg your pardon, I don't feel quite well." "You're upset, old fellow; it's quite natural," said my father.