He got up and sat on the side of his bed. He was weak. He tried to pull on his stocking. It had a horrid rough feel. The sunlight was queer and cold.
Fleming said:
—Are you not well?
He did not know; and Fleming said:
—Get back into bed. I'll tell McGlade you're not well.
—He's sick.
—Who is?
—Tell McGlade.
—Get back into bed.
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