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.
—Is he sick?
A fellow held his arms while he loosened the stocking clinging to his foot and climbed back into the hot bed.