There were four of them. Three men and a woman, their faces obscure through the smoke.
  The first one, a little man with the wiry beard, stared intently only at Patawanyme, entranced, enrapt. In his hand, a scrap of something, he crinkled. Around his neck, a silver medallion, a watch. When he took the pipe, in his nervous sucking, he snapped it. The man was not mystified, but in love.