He looked up through his own smoke.

I guess he thought he saw something, for he stared.

It troubled me a little to have him stare so.

I realized suddenly that the hand in which I carried my manuscript was moist, and I was afraid it would make marks on the paper.

I held out the manuscript to the editor, explaining that it was a poem about George Washington, and would he please print it in the "Transcript." There was something queer about that particular editor.