ten o'clock
Cailsham at any time is more the country that surrounds it . All its colours , all its life , all its interests , it takes from those great , wide gardens of fruit as they break from leaf into blossom , blossom to fruit , from fruit to the black , naked branches of winter , when Cailsham itself sinks into the silence of a well-earned , lethargic repose . Then they talk of the fruit seasons that are past , and the fruit seasons that are to come . The lights burn out early in the windows , and by ten o'clock the little town is asleep . This is Cailsham . The narrow High Street and the miniature Exchange , the square of the market-place and the stone fountain that stands with such an effort of nobility in the centre , bearing upon one of its rough slabs the name of the munificent donor , and the occasion on which the townspeople were presented with its cherished possession -- these are nothing . They are only accessories .