the eight o'clock morning
The white façades of Havana , intolerably gold under the sun and glimmering in the tropical nights , the procession and clamor of the Dia des Reyes , the crowded theatres , the restaurants where , with no appetite , he ate as little as possible -- began to appear vague , unsubstantial . What , so intently , was on every hand being done he thought meaningless . Where , originally , he had been absorbed in bringing relief to countless specific Cubans , he now only dwelt on a possible tranquility of souls , a state , like that promised in the Bible , without corruption and injustice and tears . * * * * * These considerations particularly occupied Charles Abbott waiting inside the door of Santa Clara Church for La Clavel , who was coming to the eight o'clock morning mass . Outside , the day was still and very hot , intolerably blazing , but the darkened interior of the church , the air heavy with incense , was cool . An intermittent stream of people entered -- the white and gilt of a Spanish naval uniform was followed by gay silks , a priest passed noiselessly , like a shadow ; an old woman with a rippling fire of jewels made her way forward , across the wide stone floor , with the regular subdued tap of a cane . The impending celebration of the mass gathered its activity , its white and black figures , about an altar .