The two first are in a sleep or stupor; the last is blowing at a kind of pipe, to kindle it.

And as she blows, and shading it with her lean hand, concentrates its red spark of light, it serves in the dim morning as a lamp to show him what he sees of her.
'Another ?' says this woman, in a querulous, rattling whisper.

'Have another ?' He looks about him, with his hand to his forehead.
'Ye've smoked as many as five since ye come in at midnight,' the woman goes on, as she chronically complains.

'Poor me, poor me, my head is so bad.

Them two come in after ye.