They approached a low cottage with a dark socle; a door with clouded broken panes stuffed with bundles of paper, through which shone a pallid light, gave entrance to the dwelling. In the opaque transparency of the glass appeared from time to time the shadow of a person.
Leandro opened the door and they all went in. A stuffy, smoky wave of atmosphere struck them in the face. A kerosene lamp, hanging from the ceiling and covered with a white shade, provided light for the tiny, low-roofed tavern.
As the four entered, the customers greeted them with an expression of stupefaction; for a while the habituées whispered among themselves, then some, resumed their playing as others looked on.
Fanny, Roberto, Leandro and Manuel took seats to the right of the door.
"What'll you have?" asked the woman at the counter.
"Four fifteen-céntimo glasses of wine."
The woman brought the glasses in a filthy tray, and set them upon the table. Leandro pulled out sixty céntimos.
"They're ten apiece," corrected the woman in ill-humoured tones.
"How's that?"
"Because this is outside the limits."