nine
o'clock
One could n't believe in it . When supper was over Robert washed up and Christine uncovered the decrepit , second-hand typewriter which she had bought , and began to copy from the letters , bending lower and lower over the crabbed writing and sighing deeply and impatiently as her fingers blundered at the keys . On odd nights , when there was no copying to be done , she tried to teach Robert his letters and words of one syllable , but they were both too tired , and he yawned and kicked the table and was cross and stupid with sleepiness . At nine o'clock he washed himself cautiously and crept into the little bed beside her big one and lay curled up , listening to the reassuring click-click of the typewriter , until suddenly it was broad daylight again , and there was Christine getting breakfast . In the day-time Robert played ball in the quiet street or sat with his elbows on the window-sill and watched the people go in and out of the houses opposite . The people were grey and furtive-looking , as though they were afraid of attracting the notice of some dangerous monster and had tried to take on the colour of their surroundings in self-protection . They seemed to ask nothing more for themselves than that they should be forgotten .