"Whatever have you done to yourself ?" she exclaimed.

"You're ill--that's what it is, Bunting.
You got a chill last night!" "I told you I'd got a chill," he muttered.

"'Twasn't last night, though; 'twas going out this morning, coming back in the bus.
Margaret keeps that housekeeper's room o' hers like a hothouse-- that's what she does.

'Twas going out from there into the biting wind, that's what did for me.

It must be awful to stand about in such weather; 'tis a wonder to me how that young fellow, Joe Chandler, can stand the life--being out in all weathers like he is." Bunting spoke at random, his one anxiety being to get away from what was in the paper, which now lay, neglected, on the table.
"Those that keep out o' doors all day never do come to no harm," said his wife testily.