eight o'clock
In summer the rear parlour that was Mrs. Page 's bedroom was a rather dim and dreary place ; such light as it had fell through one long , high window that gave only upon a narrow air shaft ; it was only in mid-July that the actual sunlight -- a bright and fleeting triangle -- touched the worn red carpet and the curly-maple bed . In winter the window gave almost no light at all . Julia dressed by gaslight ten months out of the year , and had to sit up in her warm blankets and stare at the clock on a certain January morning in her fifteenth year , to make sure whether it said twenty minutes of eleven or five minutes of eight o'clock . It was five minutes of eight -- no mistake about it -- but eight o'clock was early for the Pages , mother and daughter . Julia sighed , and cautiously stretched forth an arm , a bare , shapely little arm , with bangles on the round wrist and rings on the smooth fingers , and picked a book from the floor . Cautiously settling herself on the pillows she plunged into her novel , now and then pushing back a loose strand of hair , or bringing her pretty fingernails close to her eyes for an admiring and critical scrutiny . An hour passed -- another hour .