quarter to seven
Would that scoundrel never come ? He was the one who should be hanged . A clatter of hoofs behind , and Malet-Marsac turned to see the City Magistrate trot across the road from the open country . He drew out his watch accusingly and as a torrent of reproach rose to his white parched lips , he saw that the time was -- exactly quarter to seven . '' ` Morning , Marsac , '' said the City Magistrate as he swung down from the saddle . `` You 're looking precious blue about the gills . '' '' ` Morning , Wellson , '' replied the other shortly .