nearly eleven o'clock
That visit must be paid the first thing this morning . A Sunday morning . In their parlour in Burton Crescent , Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Snowdon were breakfasting . The sound of church bells -- most depressing of all sounds that mingle in the voice of London -- intimated that it was nearly eleven o'clock , but neither of our friends had in view the attendance of public worship . Blended odours of bacon and kippered herrings filled the room -- indeed , the house , for several breakfasts were in progress under the same roof . For a wonder , the morning was fine , even sunny ; a yellow patch glimmered on the worn carpet , and the grime of the window-panes was visible against an unfamiliar sky . Joseph , incompletely dressed , had a Sunday paper propped before him , and read whilst he ate .