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The only explanation that was credible was the totally incredible idea that some life, alien to earth and with strange unearthly powers, was after him or that he was insane. He fumbled through a pack of cigarettes until he located the last one, streaked with sweat that was still pouring down from his armpit, and lighted it. It was all answer-less just as his sudden need for smoking was.
The minority of businesses that provide no insurance at all, and in so doing, shift the cost of the care of their employees to others, should contribute something. People who smoke should pay more for a pack of cigarettes. Everybody can contribute something if we want to solve the health care crisis. There can't be anymore something for nothing. It will not be easy, but it can be done.
The natives here had never before seen a white person and in a few moments our tents were surrounded by a crowd of strange-looking men and boys. The chief of the village presented us with an enormous rooster and we made him happy by returning two tins of cigarettes. The Lolo women, the first we had seen, were especially surprising because of their graceful figures and handsome faces.
"So you rented the place?" "Yes, Cousin Lorando, though I hated to. But I wouldn't sell it, though they wanted me to. I just couldn't." "I know." He lighted his cigar and puffed at it in meditative silence for a moment, while the babble from the parlor floated in with the odor of the Ceylon tea and cigarettes. "That's what I came about, Cousin Jule the old place.
In the late autumn and winter months the women do little else than make bread, often in fanciful shapes, for the feasts and dances which continually occur. A sweet drink, not at all intoxicating, is made from the sprouted wheat. The men use tobacco, procured from white traders, in the form of cigarettes from corn-husks; but this is a luxury in which the women do not indulge.
As your father's son, it is always at your disposal. Have a cigar." The thin secretary continued to flit about the room, between the letter-files and the desk. Austen had found it infinitely easier to shoot Mr. Blodgett than to engage in a duel with the president of the United Railroad. "I smoke a pipe," he said. "Too many young men smoke cigars and those disgusting cigarettes," said Mr.
Coquenil felt for cigarettes in his coat pocket and his hand touched the friendly barrel of a revolver. There must be some miraculous interposition if this man beside him, this baby-faced wood carver, was to get away now as he did that night on the Champs Elysées. "You'll be paying for that left-handed punch, old boy, before very long," said Coquenil to himself.
The Baron is safe. Mrs. Annenberg has herself smoked one of the fatal cigarettes intended for him." Kreiger looked at us, uncomprehending. Kennedy picked up the crushed, unlighted cigarette and laid it in the palm of his hand beside another, half smoked, which he had found beside Mrs. Annenberg. "They are deadly," he said simply to Kreiger.
Cigarettes were showered into the hands of these soldier lads. They could get drunk for nothing at the expense of English residents of Paris the jockeys from Chantilly, the bank clerks of the Imperial Club, the bar loungers of the St. Petersbourg. The temptation was not resisted with the courage of Christian martyrs.
"Give me a cigarette, Dick," she said. "Did he say he would come?" The painter went over to an old Spanish cabinet and rummaged for a box of cigarettes, with his horsey-looking back turned towards her. "Did he?" she repeated. "Can't you tell me what happened when you spoke to him? Why force me to cross-examine you in this indelicate way?"
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