eight o’clock
Here we are ! ' I have overflown myself , perhaps , but I ca n't believe it . I feel as if I were enchanted or bewitched . It is barely eight o'clock yet -- it is nothing like half-past -- when I have had my luggage examined at that briskest of Custom-houses attached to the station , and am rattling over the pavement in a hackney-cabriolet . Surely , not the pavement of Paris ? Yes , I think it is , too . I do n't know any other place where there are all these high houses , all these haggard-looking wine shops , all these billiard tables , all these stocking-makers with flat red or yellow legs of wood for signboard , all these fuel shops with stacks of billets painted outside , and real billets sawing in the gutter , all these dirty corners of streets , all these cabinet pictures over dark doorways representing discreet matrons nursing babies .