ten minutes to twelve
`` Are you really sorry you 're going away from your little kid , Bill ? '' Blanche sighed sharply . After all , so she told herself , there is something to be said for love 's young dream . It marked ten minutes to twelve on the tower of the ancient chantry church of Darnaston as Blanche Farrow walked across the village green and past the group of thatched cottages composing the pretty hamlet which looks so small compared with its noble house of God . But , though she was early , the man she was to meet was evidently already there , for a big , mud-stained motor-car was drawn up in the lane which runs to the left of the church . Feeling more and more apprehensive , she knew not of what , she walked up the path between the graves , and then suddenly she saw Mark Gifford -- his spare , still active-looking figure framed in the stone porch , his plain , but pleasant , intelligent-looking face full of a grave welcome . He stepped out of the porch and gripped her hand in silence .