midnight
Now tell me what to write . '' In the end matters adjusted themselves . Daily Lloyd took her place at the desk , pen in hand , the sleeve of her right arm rolled back to the elbow -LRB- a habit of hers whenever writing , and which Bennett found to be charming beyond words -RRB- , her pen travelling steadily from line to line . He on his part paced the floor , a cigar between his teeth , his notes and note-books in his hand , dictating comments of his own , or quoting from the pages , stained , frayed , and crumpled , written by the light of the auroras , the midnight suns , or the unsteady , flickering of train-oil lanterns and blubber-lamps . What long , delicious hours they spent thus , as the winter drew on , in the absolute quiet of that country house , ignored and lost in the brown , bare fields and leafless orchards of the open country ! No one troubled them . No one came near them .