three o'clock
WITH a continuous sob and a roar from the distant ocean the storm beats on . All night it has hurled itself upon path and lawn with impotent fury ; towards morning it still rages , and even now , when noonday is at its height , its anger is not yet expended . The rain falls in heavy torrents , the trees bow and creak most mournfully , the rose leaves -- sweet-scented and pink as glowing morn -- are scattered along the walks , or else , lifted high in air by vehement gusts of wind , are dashed hither and thither in a mazy dance full of passion and despair . `` Just three o'clock , '' says Dulce , drearily , `` and what weather ! '' `` It is always bad on your day , '' says Julia , with a carefully suppressed yawn . Julia , when yawning , is not pretty . `` I remember when I was here last year , that Thursday , as a rule , was the most melancholy day in the week . ''