nine o'clock
Acacia Grove was the deformed extremity of a misbegotten suburb . There were five acacia trees planted on either side of the unfinished roadway , but they had been blighted in their youth , and their branches were spinsterish and threadbare . Behind the houses were a few dingy fields , and then a biscuit factory , an obscene , congested-looking building with belching chimneys . Every morning at nine o'clock Robert walked with Christine to the corner of the road , and a jolly , red-faced ` bus , rollicking through the neighbourhood like a slightly intoxicated reveller who has landed by mistake in a gathering of Decayed Gentlefolk , carried her off citywards , and at dusk returned her again , grey and worn , with wisps of tired brown hair hanging about her face and bundles of solemn letters and folded parchment documents bulging from her dispatch-case . Then she and Robert shopped together at the Stores , and afterwards she cooked over a gas-jet in the scullery , and they had supper together , almost in the dark , but very peacefully . It was too peaceful . One could n't believe in it .