eleven o'clock
We were in Aunt Marcia 's parlour . Rosalind was an orphan , and lived in turn with her three aunts . She said the other two were less unendurable than Aunt Marcia , and I believed her . I consider , to begin with , that a person is not civilised who thumps upon the floor upstairs with a poker , simply because it happens to be eleven o'clock ; and moreover , Aunt Marcia 's parlour -- oh , it really was a `` parlour , '' -- was entirely too like the first night of a charity bazaar , when nothing has been sold . The room was not a particularly large one ; but it contained exactly three hundred and seven articles of bijouterie , not estimating the china pug-dog upon the hearth . I know , for I counted them . Besides , there were twenty-eight pictures upon the walls -- one in oils of the late Mr. Dumby -LRB- for Aunt Marcia was really Mrs. Clement Dumby -RRB- , painted , to all appearances , immediately after the misguided gentleman who married Aunt Marcia had been drowned , and before he had been wiped dry , -- and for the rest , everywhere the eye was affronted by engravings framed in gilt and red-plush of `` Sanctuary , '' `` Le Hamac , '' `` Martyre Chrétienne , '' `` The Burial of Latané , '' and other Victorian outrages .