twelve o'clock
She had a figure almost perfect , erect , lithe , with small hands and feet and tiny wrists . Her voice was a soft contralto , caress-ing and full of feeling , with a touch of the languor and delicate sensuousness of the Old South . About her personality there was a haunting charm , vivid and spiritual , the breath of a soul capable of the highest heroism if once aroused . At twelve o'clock she relighted the gas and went downstairs to stand at the parlour window to scan more clearly every face that might pass , and -- yes , she would be honest with herself now -- to spring into his arms the moment he entered , smother him with kisses and beg him to forgive the bitter words she had spoken in anger . She was sure he would come in a moment . He must have gone on one of his long walks . She could see the elevated cars on their long trestle , count the stations , and guess how many minutes it would take him to climb the hill and rush up the steps .