three o'clock
She could see distinctly for a while the stately pieces of old furniture standing in their places against the walls . Just opposite where she sat was one of lustreless old mahogany , extending the width of the wall between two doors , rearing itself upon slender legs , set with multitudinous drawers , and surmounted by a clock . A piece of furniture for which she knew no name , an evidence of long-established wealth and old-fashioned luxury , of which she and her plain folk , with their secretaries and desks and bureaus , had known nothing . The clock had stopped at three o'clock . Mrs. Field thought to herself that it might have been the hour on which old Mr. Maxwell died , reflecting that souls were more apt to pass away in the wane of the night . She would have like to wind the clock , and set the hands moving past that ghostly hour , but she did not dare to stir . She gazed at the large , dull figures sprawling over the old carpet , at the glimmering satiny scrolls on the wall-paper .