She hated that smell. Why did he insist on smoking those damned cigars? No matter how many times she told him they gave her a headache, he just wouldn't stop. She swore he did it on purpose. Taking a deep breath, she opened the sewing basket sitting beside her rocker. Pulling out what she needed, she deftly threaded the sharp needle with black thread. Picking up the cloth in her lap, she stabbed the needle into the black fabric - over and over again, rapidly pulling the thread through. She ignored the slam of the back door and his shout that he was going to work in the basement. Over and over she punched holes in the cloth, sewing as though her life depended on it. Finishing with a sigh, she stuck the needle into her pin cushion and shook out the cloth. "That ought to fit," she muttered as she stood and held the large bag against her body. "Good thing he's short," she snorted. She laid it over the arm of the rocker and walked purposely into the kitchen. "Now where did I put that arsenic."