the hour of
eight
The smooth round arch of the falling water glistened for a moment in mid-air . John Gourlay , standing in front of his new house at the head of the brae , could hear the swash of it when it fell . The morning was of perfect stillness . The hands of the clock across `` the Square '' were pointing to the hour of eight . They were yellow in the sun . Blowsalinda , of the Red Lion , picked up the big bass that usually lay within the porch , and carrying it clumsily against her breast , moved off round the corner of the public-house , her petticoat gaping behind . Halfway she met the hostler , with whom she stopped in amorous dalliance .