ALICE ADAMS by BOOTH TARKINGTON
The patient, an old-fashioned man, thought the nurse made a
mistake in keeping both of the windows open, and her sprightly
disregard of his protests added something to his hatred of her.
Every evening he told her that anybody with ordinary gumption
ought to realize that night air was bad for the human frame.
"The human frame won't stand everything, Miss Perry," he warned
her, resentfully. "Even a child, if it had just ordinary
gumption, ought to know enough not to let the night air blow on
sick people yes, nor well people, either! 'Keep out of the night
air, no matter how well you feel.' That's what my mother used to
tell me when I was a boy. 'Keep out of the night air, Virgil,'
she'd say. 'Keep out of the night air.'"
"I expect probably her mother told her the same thing," the nurse
"Of course she did. My grandmother----"
"Oh, I guess your GRANDmother thought so, Mr. Adams! That was
when all this flat central country was swampish and hadn't been
drained off yet. I guess the truth must been the swamp