Every night, when at last, laden with gold, he climbs to his bed, he hopes piously that the morrow may be colder.
And it usually is.
He will soon be a millionaire.
It is only a warm wind that can blow the chemist no good.
I wish I was a chemist, but it is now too late.
Still, I wish I was a chemist.
Aunt. "I can't think of letting you two girls go alone, and as I shall not be able to go your Uncle will look after you."