eleven
o'clock
He handed her , without reply , into the small victoria , one of the first in Havana , which had taken the place of her volanta . In the sun , her shawl , her smile , were dazzling . A knot of men gathered , gazing at her with longing , regarding Charles Abbott with insolent resentment and wonder ; how , their expressions made clear the thought , could that insignificant and colorless foreigner , that tepid American , engage and hold La Clavel , the glory of Cuba and Spain ? She drove away , shielding her eyes with the fan , and Charles returned slowly , on foot , to the hotel , reaching it in time for the eleven o'clock breakfast . Bolting his door , closing the high shutters of his glassless window , he lay down tired and feverish . The vendors of oranges cried , far off , their naranjes , naranjes dulces . The bed , which had no mattress , its sacking covered by a single sheet , the pillow stuffed hard with cotton , offered him little rest .