twenty minutes past eight
`` My mother , who had never in her life refused me anything , did not long oppose me to-day . A hansom cab rattled me off to the station ; and at five minutes before the half-hour I was on the platform , with my ticket for Kylmington in my pocket . '' `` The clock of Kylmington church , which was as much behind any other public timekeeper I had ever encountered as the town of Kylmington was behind any other town I had ever explored , struck eight as I opened the little wooden gate of the churchyard , and went into the shade of an avenue of stunted sycamores , which was supposed to be the chief glory of Kylmington . `` It was twenty minutes past eight by London time , and the summer sun had gone down , leaving all the low western sky bathed in vivid yellow light , which deepened into crimson as I watched it . `` I had been more than an hour and a half in Kylmington . I had taken some slight refreshment at the principal hotel -- a queer , old-fashioned place , with a ruinous , weedy appearance pervading it , and the impress of incurable melancholy stamped on the face of every scrap of rickety furniture and lopsided window-blind . I had taken some slight refreshment -- to this hour I do n't know _ what _ it was I ate upon that balmy summer evening , so entirely was my mind absorbed by that bright hope , which was growing brighter and brighter every moment .