half past
three in the afternoon
I leaned over the dark form and listened , and I knew that his march was ended . Through what quiet lanes of trivial circumstance do we move toward the momentous events of our lives ? We go our way , whistling thoughtlessly ; we turn a corner and stand face to face with the all-important . In my boyhood I went fishing and tumbled into a mountain stream ; I overheard Boller of '89 speaking to Gladys Todd ; I walked the Avenue at half past three in the afternoon and met Penelope Blight . How finely spun is the thread which holds together my story ! A firmer foothold on the bank , an ear less quick to catch an undertone , a moment 's delay before setting out on my daily airing , and there might have been no story to tell you ; the valley might have been all the world I know and the wall of mountains my mind 's horizon . Then I come to the matter of Philip Bennett 's motor .