Eleven o'clock
She tried to sketch from memory , but nothing would hinder that least pleasant of occupations -- thought . Either she imagined every unpleasant chance of detention , she worried herself about Robert Fulmort , or marvelled what Mr. Prendergast and the censorious ladies would do with Edna Murrell . Many a time did she hold her watch to her ear , suspecting it of having stopped , so slowly did it loiter through the weary hours . Eleven o'clock when she hoped it was one -- half-past two when it felt like five . By real five , the mist was thinner , showing first nearer , then remoter objects ; the coarse slates of the roofs opposite emerged polished and dripping , and the cloud finally took its leave , some heavy flakes , like cotton wool , hanging on the hill-side , and every rock shining , every leaf glistening . Verdure and rosy cheeks both resulted from a perpetual vapour-bath . Lucilla rejoiced in her liberty , and hurried out of doors , but leaning out of the coffee-room window , loungers were seen who made her sensible of the awkwardness of her position , and she looked about for yesterday 's guide as a friend , but he was not at hand , and her uneasy gaze brought round her numbers , begging or offering guidance .