The Mystery of Edwin Drood, Reprinted Pieces, and Other Stories #260755

She blows at the pipe as she speaks, and, occasionally bubbling at it, inhales much of its contents. Oh me, oh me, my lungs is weak, my lungs is bad! It's nearly ready for ye, deary. Ah, poor me, poor me, my poor hand shakes like to drop off I see ye coming to, and I ses to my poor self, I'll have another ready for him, and he'll bear in mind the market price of opium, and pay according.' Oh my poor head! I makes my pipes of old penny ink — bottles, ye see, deary — this is one — and I fits in a mouth piece this way, and I takes my mixter out of this thimble with this little horn spoon and so I fills, deary. Ah, my poor nerves! I got Heavens-hard drunk for sixteen year afore I took to this; but this don't hurt me, not to speak of. And it takes away the hunger as well as wittles, deary. She hands him the nearly-emptied pipe, and sinks back, turning over on her face.