six o’clock
The great chasm of memory from her childhood in the intimate country surroundings of Cossethay and the Marsh Farm -- she remembered the servant Tilly , who used to give her bread and butter sprinkled with brown sugar , in the old living-room where the grandfather clock had two pink roses in a basket painted above the figures on the face -- and now when she was travelling into the unknown with Birkin , an utter stranger -- was so great , that it seemed she had no identity , that the child she had been , playing in Cossethay churchyard , was a little creature of history , not really herself . They were at Brussels -- half an hour for breakfast . They got down . On the great station clock it said six o'clock . They had coffee and rolls and honey in the vast desert refreshment room , so dreary , always so dreary , dirty , so spacious , such desolation of space . But she washed her face and hands in hot water , and combed her hair -- that was a blessing . Soon they were in the train again and moving on .