It is
the grand life-giver. No, miss, leave the window open. You can't get too
much of it. Let it play about you, draw it deeply into your lungs like
this," and he took a great deep draught, until Mysie thought he was
going to expand so much that he might fall out of the carriage window,
or burst open its sides. Then, he let it out in a long, loud blast, like
a miniature cyclone, making a noise like escaping steam; while his eyes
seemed as if they had made up their minds to jump out, had the blast and
the pressure not eased them at the last critical moment.
Then he stood panting, his shoulders going up and down, and his chest
going out and in, like a pair of bellows in a country blacksmith's shop.
"Nothing like fresh air, miss," he panted. "You take my tip on that.
I've proved it. Just look at me. I'm health itself, and might make a
fortune by sitting as an advertisement for somebody's patent pills, only
I feel too honorable for that; for it is fresh air that has done it.
Fresh air, and plenty of it!" and he turned his nose again in the
direction of the window, as if he would gulp the air down in gallons--a
veritable glutton of Boreas.
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