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Updated: June 27, 2025
Albeury rose abruptly, and tossed his half-smoked cigarette into the grate. "Wait here until I return," he said. He unlocked the door, and went out of the room. I heard his footsteps grow fainter and fainter as he went along the corridor.
He saw her vibrating like a smitten harp-string; saw the quick rise and fall of the lace at her breast; and it was all a man could do to keep his hands off her. He had to remind himself that she was no child to be comforted with empty kisses; but very woman and very artist, torn between the master-forces of life. "See here, lass," he said quietly, laying aside his half-smoked cigar.
"You'll get over that. I reckon you haven't got anything against his daughter." "Perhaps not," said Harvey; "but that's different." "Oh, is it?" Harvey sat for a moment without reply, then he tossed his half-smoked cigar into the ashtray and rose. "Don't go, West. I shall be up for a long while." "I'm tired," Harvey replied. "I need sleep. Good night." Harvey walked home slowly.
"There is nobody there for the moment," he said, "but that bulldog of Fenwick's can't be far off, for there is a half-smoked cigarette on the end of the table which has not yet gone out. I think I can see my way now to working this thing without any trouble or danger. Do you happen to know if that rheumatic old caretaker uses snuff?" "Really, I don't," Vera said with a smile.
Buddy walked stiffly away to the cook's cabin where Step-and-a-Half sat leisurely gouging the worst blemishes out of soft, old potatoes with a chronic tendency to grow sprouts, before he peeled them for supper His crippled leg was thrust out straight, his hat was perched precariously over one ear because of the slanting sun rays through the window, and a half-smoked cigarette waggled uncertainly in the corner of his mouth while he sang dolefully a most optimistic ditty of the West: "O give me a home where the buff-alo roam, Where the deer and the antelope play, Where never is heard a discouraging word And the sky is not cloudy all day."
Gilmore took the butt of the half-smoked cigar from between his teeth, tossed it into the gutter, and pushing past Mr. Shrimplin entered the room. Colonel Harbison, a step or two in advance of his companion, led the way to the rear of the store. The colonel paused, and Gilmore gained a place at his elbow. "You are sure he's dead?" questioned the gambler.
"What's the Piegan word for accomplice, Sam?" he asked softly. Sam Pretty Cow considered. "Me, I'm don' know them damn word," he decided. "It's a word that sends smart men to jail, Sam. It means the man that stays at home and knows." Sam Pretty Cow tucked his feet under the thin blanket, laid his half-smoked cigarette on the box, with the burning end out over the edge. "Uh-huh. Yeah. You bet."
You think to come here and find men that are babies, do you? men that " He went off noiselessly on his bare feet, muttering to himself with the half-smoked cigarette in his lean, brown hand. Meanwhile, Maurice climbed rapidly up the steep track over the stones in the eye of the sun. He had not lied to Salvatore. While the fisherman had been speaking to him he had come to a decision.
And " he thumped the hidden identification disc, "tell her that she is the only woman that has ever really mattered in the whole of my blasted life." He threw his half-smoked cigarette into the fire-place and walked over to the sideboard, where stood decanters and syphon. "May I help myself to a drink?" "Certainly," said I. He gulped down half a whisky and soda and turned on me. "You promise?"
By the east window stood the plainest of deal tables, innocent of any cloth or covering, such as might have been used in a kitchen. It was Presley's work table, and was invariably littered with papers, half-finished manuscripts, drafts of poems, notebooks, pens, half-smoked cigarettes, and the like. Near at hand, upon a shelf, were his books.
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