twelve o’clock
I poured out some whisky and lit a cigar . I sat wondering what Ascher was doing . The clock chimed again and then it struck . It was twelve o'clock . It was a clock with a singularly mellow gong . The sounds it made were soft and unaggressive . There was no rude challenge in its assertion that time was passing on , but the very gentleness of its warnings , a gentleness deeply tinged with melancholy , infected me with a strange restlessness .