seven o'clock
Come , my love of a judge , judge of my love ! Wo n't the thread go nicely into this iron gate , which makes good use of the thread , for it comes out very much out of order ? '' Then she burst out laughing , for she was better up in this game than the judge , who laughed too , so saucy and comical and arch was she , pushing the thread backwards and forwards . She kept the poor judge with the case in his hand until seven o'clock , keeping on fidgeting and moving about like a schoolboy let loose ; but as La Portillone kept on trying to put the thread in , he could not help it . As , however , his joint was burning , and his wrist was tired , he was obliged to rest himself for a minute on the side of the table ; then very dexterously the fair maid of Portillon slipped the thread in , saying -- `` That 's how the thing occurred . '' `` But my joint was burning . '' `` So was mine , '' said she .