Gideon had never been known to lose his.
Sharon smoked and lolled carelessly in a Morris chair, one short, stout arm laid along its side, the other carelessly wielding the cigar, heedless of falling ashes.

Beside the careful Gideon he looked rustic.
Harvey D., son of Gideon, worriedly paced the length of the room.

His eyes were large behind thick glasses.

He smoked a cigarette gingerly, not inhaling its smoke, but ridding himself of it in little puffs of distaste.

His brown beard was neatly trimmed, and above it shone his forehead, pale and beautifully modelled under the carefully parted, already thinning, hair that was arranged in something almost like ringlets on either side.