quarter past five
The street was still , save for the twittering of birds and the distant rumble of a cart in its early rounds . The chill air of the morning made her shiver as she scanned the entry for the newspaper . Dismayed , she turned to the clock in the hall . Its hands were at quarter past five . She sat long behind the curtains in her father 's little library , the thoughts whirling in her brain as she watched the growing life of another day . What would it bring forth ? Once she stole softly back to the entry , self-indulgent and ashamed , to rehearse again the bitter and the sweet of that scene of the Sunday before .