midnight
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 . Ah , poor me , the business is slack , is slack !