twenty minutes past seven
His heart was full , his throat burning . He crossed the market-place and suddenly bent down and kissed the worn stones of the Tower . There was no one to see . He was in the station at twenty minutes past seven . The platform was long and cold and deserted , but in the waiting-room was Mr. Zanti enveloped in an enormous black coat . `` Ah , my dear boy , this is indeed splendid . And ` ave you said farewell to your father ? ''