a quarter to seven
`` Indeed , yes , '' I answered . `` Then it is good-bye , Henry . I shall not bother to offer you my hand . Brutus , you will remain with my son until a quarter to seven . '' Even now I can not tell what made a mist come over my eyes and a lump in my throat any more than I can explain my subsequent actions on that evening . Was it possible I was sorry to see the last of him ? Or was it simply self pity that shortened my breath and made my voice seem broken and discordant ?