And yet I never have the heart to dissuade her, she seems to take such delight in seeing me smoke one of the vile weeds some villain of a tobacconist sold her as prime stuff.
Now this year I determined to be wise.
Accordingly I managed to slip out of the house and presented the box with a "Merry Christmas" to Mike McGinnity who lives around the corner.
Then I bought a box of my favorites and smuggled it into the house, feeling guilty, yet triumphant.
That night Clara, bless her heart, insisted on opening the package and bringing me the first cigar, which she lighted with her own dear hands.
Then she watched me puff my satisfaction.
It was genuine, I tell you, and mentally I was patting myself on the back.
"How do you like them, my dear?" she asked, anxiously.
"Prime—as good as any I've ever smoked," I replied, honestly.