midday
She read more and more novels from the circulating libraries , of a kind demanding less and less effort of attention . And always her inability to concentrate appeared to her as a just demand for clarity : `` The man has no _ business _ to write so that I ca n't understand him . '' She laid in a weekly stock of opinions from _ The Spectator _ , and by this means contrived a semblance of intellectual life . She was appeased more and more by the rhythm of the seasons , of the weeks , of day and night , by the first coming up of the pink and wine-brown velvet primulas , by the pungent , burnt smell of her morning coffee , the smell of a midday stew , of hot cakes baking for tea time ; by the lighting of the lamp , the lighting of autumn fires , the round of her visits . She waited with a strained , expectant desire for the moment when it would be time to see Lizzie or Sarah or Connie Pennefather again . Seeing them was a habit she could n't get over . But it no longer gave her keen pleasure .