But toward the end of his prescribed term of lying, the weather veered again. It grew misty and cold overnight, the valley was hid by gusts of wet snow, and the dry heat of the radiator filled the room. Such was the day on which Hans Castorp reminded the doctor, on his morning round, that the three weeks were out, and asked leave to get up.

“What the deuce⁠—you don’t say!” said Behrens. “Time’s up, is it? Let’s see: yes, you’re right⁠—good Lord, how fast we grow old! Things haven’t changed much with you, in the meantime. Normal yesterday? Yes, up to six o’clock in the afternoon. Well, Castorp, I won’t grudge you human society any longer. Up with you, man, and get on with your walks⁠—within the prescribed limits, of course. We’ll take a picture of the inside of you⁠—make a note of it,” he said as he went out, jerking his great thumb over his shoulder at Hans Castorp, and looking at the pallid assistant with his bloodshot, watery blue eyes. Hans Castorp left the “caboose.”