one o’clock in the afternoon
It seemed as if no other hours had existed before it and no other hours would exist after it -- as if this hour alone , insolent and presumptuous , had a right to a certain peculiar existence . `` Well , what do you want ? '' asked the Minister angrily , muttering between his teeth . The gramophone shouted : `` At one o'clock in the afternoon , your Excellency ! '' and the black pole smiled and bowed . Gnashing his teeth , the Minister rose in his bed to a sitting posture , leaning his face on the palms of his hands -- he positively could not sleep on that dreadful night . Clasping his face in his swollen , perfumed palms , he pictured to himself with horrifying clearness how on the following morning , not knowing anything of the plot against his life , he would have risen , would have drunk his coffee , not knowing anything , and then would have put on his coat in the hallway .