nine o'clock
Dryfoos saw it , too , the wound that he had feared to look for , and that now seemed to redden on his sight . He broke into a low , wavering cry , like a child 's in despair , like an animal 's in terror , like a soul 's in the anguish of remorse . The evening after the funeral , while the Marches sat together talking it over , and making approaches , through its shadow , to the question of their own future , which it involved , they were startled by the twitter of the electric bell at their apartment door . It was really not so late as the children 's having gone to bed made it seem ; but at nine o'clock it was too late for any probable visitor except Fulkerson . It might be he , and March was glad to postpone the impending question to his curiosity concerning the immediate business Fulkerson might have with him . He went himself to the door , and confronted there a lady deeply veiled in black and attended by a very decorous serving-woman . `` Are you alone , Mr. March -- you and Mrs. March ? ''