ten o'clock
In a dingy garret , looking out , when its grimy panes allowed , above one of the many squalid streets that feed the main artery of the Strand , my story begins anew . The furniture of the room relieves me of the task of word-painting , being more effectively described by catalogue , after the manner of the ships at Troy . It consisted of two small beds , one rickety washstand , one wooden chair , and one tin candlestick . At the present moment this last held a flickering dip , for it was ten o'clock on the night of May the ninth , eighteen hundred and sixty-three . On the chair sat Tom , turning excitedly the leaves of a prodigiously imposing manuscript . I was sitting on the edge of the bed nearest the candle , brooding on my hate as usual . Fortune had evidently dealt us some rough knocks .