one o'clock
There were the usual demurrings from Ada , rather prettily pink , and Mrs. Turkletaub , with the threat of sobs swallowed , opening the upright piano to dust the dustless keyboard with her apron , and Nicholas , his sagging pipe quickly supplied with one of the rose-twined cuspidors for ash receiver , hunched down in the pink-velour armchair of enormous upholstered hips . The `` Turkish Patrol '' was what Ada played , and then , `` Who Is Sylvia ? '' and sang it , as frailly as a bird . At one o'clock there was dinner , that immemorial Sunday meal of roast chicken with its supplicating legs up off the platter ; dressing to be gouged out ; sweet potatoes in amber icing ; a master stroke of Mrs. Turkletaub 's called '' _ matzos klose _ , '' balls of unleavened bread , sizzling , even as she served them , in a hot butter bath and light-brown onions ; a stuffed goose neck , bursting of flavor ; cheese pie twice the depth of the fork that cut in ; coffee in large cups . More cracking of nuts , interspersed with raisins . Ada , cunningly enveloped in a much-too-large apron , helping Mrs. Turkletaub to clear it all away . Smoking there in his chair beside the dining-room window , rain the unrelenting threnody of the day , Nicholas , fed , closed his eyes to the rhythm of their comings and goings through the swinging door that led to the kitchen .