distressingly
good; it
tires me
to death
to think
of it.”
“But this
is a
serious
subject,
my boy,
Auguste,”
said Miss
Ophelia,
laying her
hand on
his
forehead.
“Dismally
so,” said
he; “and I
– well, I
never want
to talk
seriously
in hot
weather.
What with
mosquitos
and all, a
fellow
can’t get
himself up
to any
very
sublime
moral
flights;
and I
believe,”
said St.
Clare,
suddenly
rousing
himself
up,
“there’s a
theory,
now! I
understand
