eleven o'clock
She stitched , and she stitched , and she stitched , at the monotonous over and over bow-knots . Doggedly she kept on , though her shoulders ached , her eyes smarted , and her fingers trembled . With a kind of whimsical pathos , she repeated to herself Hood 's `` Song of the Shirt , '' and said , under her breath , '' ` Stitch , stitch , stitch , till the cock is crowing aloof , ' or whatever it is ! '' Then she saw by her watch that it was eleven o'clock . `` I 'll just finish this bow , '' she thought , `` and then , I 'll stop . '' But before the bow was finished , there was a tap at her door . `` Who 's there ? ''