Smoking kills

‘Dr Martin, is it?’

‘Er, yes’

‘From England?’

‘Yes’

Lomax reached into his top pocket, withdrew a pouch of tobacco and some rice paper, and began to roll a cigarette.

‘Not politically correct, are you?’ he asked.

‘No, I don’t think so.’

Lomax grunted in apparent approval.

‘Had a politically correct doctor. Always yellin’ at me to stop smoking.’

Martin noted the past tense.

‘I suppose you left him?’

‘Nope, he left me. Died last week. Fifty-six. Stress. What brings you here?’

The fist of God, Chapter seventeen. Frederick Forsyth