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"She isn't very likely to want you, and I've sworn you shan't frighten her any more; but you shan't abandon her either while there is the faintest chance that she may want you." "There is not the faintest." Mordaunt glanced down at the thing that had once been a cigarette which he still held between his fingers, contemplated it for a moment, then rose and went to the mantelpiece for an ash-tray.
The cigar which I had dropped on an ash-tray at the first sound of her voice still held its ash and sent up a thin spiral of smoke. It had outlived me. My host plunged afresh into his papers. He might as well have been reading me ukases from the Romonoff Czar in the undiluted Russian. But as the clock ticked off the half-hour I seemed to freeze out of the eruptive and into the glacial stage.
Stubs of cigarettes were lying in an ash-tray on the bed. In a moment or two they settled me down and left me alone with him. As soon as he heard the click of the door he said: "I've done more than I set out to do. You remember our conversation. I said I should either get the V.C. or never see you again. I've managed both." "What do you mean?" I asked.
The plates seasoned the cooking with morality and otherwise the cooking was quite excellent. One plate said: "Think of everything: otherwise no good will come to you!" Another: "Affection and gratitude please everybody. Ingratitude pleases nobody." Although Christophe did not smoke, the ash-tray on the mantelpiece insisted on introducing itself to him: "A little resting place for burning cigars."
Nayland Smith was watching me curiously as I bent over the little brass ash-tray. "You are puzzled," he rapped in his short way. "So am I utterly puzzled. Fu-Manchu's gallery of monstrosities clearly has become reinforced; for even if we identified the type, we should not be in sight of our explanation." "You mean," I began...
She dropped her cigarette end into the ash-tray, and with it any further consideration of the manners and disposition of Lord Loudwater. She lit another cigarette and let her thoughts turn to that far more appealing subject, Colonel Antony Grey. They turned to him readily and wholly. In less than three minutes she was seeing his face and hearing certain tones in his voice with amazing clearness.
He was embarrassed by her bedroom: the broad couch with a cover of violet silk, mauve curtains striped with gold. Chinese Chippendale bureau, and an amazing row of slippers, with ribbon-wound shoe-trees, and primrose stockings lying across them. His manner of bringing the ash-tray had just the right note of easy friendliness, he felt.
A quill pen lay on the blotting pad, its point in the midst of a couple of square inches of idle arabesques. On three different parts of the pad marked by singularly little blotted matter the quill had scrawled "God. A Novel. By Adrian Boldero." On a brass ash-tray I noticed three cigarettes, of each of which only about an eighth of an inch had been smoked.
"I generally form an opinion before the inquest," said Quarles as he looked at each glass in turn and stirred the contents of the ash-tray with a match. "You must often make mistakes," remarked the doctor. "I propose having the body moved to the bedroom; there is nothing else you would like to look at before I do so?"
Ling Chu lit the cigarette before he answered, blew out the match and placed it carefully in the ash-tray on the centre of the table. "The man is sleeping on the Terrace of Night," said Ling Chu simply. "Dead?" said the startled Tarling. The Chinaman nodded. "Did you kill him?" Again Ling Chu paused and puffed a cloud of cigarette smoke into the air.
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