the hour of ten
He knew that not a day or night would pass that he would not think or dream of Marette Radisson . The wonder of her had grown more vivid for him with each hour that passed , and he was sorry now that he had not dared to touch her hair . She would not have been offended with him , for she had kissed him -- after he had killed the impulse to lay his hand on that soft glory that had crowned her head . And then the little bell in his watch tinkled the hour of ten ! He sat up with a jerk . For a space he held his breath while he listened . In the hall outside his room there was no sound .