twenty minutes past five
No other sound in the room but the hard grate of the ivory paper-knife sawing its way through a book whose outside alone -LRB- a muddy-brown , pimpled cloth -RRB- proclaimed it utilitarian . Among the fair-covered Italian volumes , the vellum-bound poets , and those friends-for-a-lifetime wearing linen or morocco to suit a special taste ; above all , among that greater company ` quite impudently French ' that stood close ranked on shelves or lay about on tables -- the brown book on its dusty modern theme wore the air of a frieze-coated yeoman sitting amongst broadcloth and silk . The reader glanced from time to time at the clock . When the small glittering hand on the porcelain face pointed to twenty minutes past five , the lady took her book and her paper-knife into a front room on the floor below . She sat down behind the lowered persienne , and every now and then lifted her eyes from the page and peered out between the tiny slits . As the time went on she looked out oftener . More than once she half rose and seemed about to abandon all hope of the mysterious visitor when a hansom dashed up to the door .