The Doctor used to lie in wait for the exact moment, watch in hand.

'There is nothing like regularity,' he would say, fill out the doses, and dilate on the virtues of the draught; and if the boy seemed none the better, the Doctor was not at all the worse.
Gunpowder Day, the boy was particularly low.

It was scowling, squally weather.

Huge broken companies of cloud sailed swiftly overhead; raking gleams of sunlight swept the village, and were followed by intervals of darkness and white, flying rain.

At times the wind lifted up its voice and bellowed.