The Open Door and the Portrait

He waved his thin hand with a sort of indignation. Then, father, I am not ill, he cried. Oh, I thought when you came you would not stop me, –you would see the sense of it! What do you think is the matter with me, all of you? Simson is well enough; but he is only a doctor. What do you think is the matter with me? I am no more ill than you are. A doctor, of course, he thinks you are ill the moment he looks at you–that’s what he’s there for–and claps you into bed.