eleven
o’clock
`` Shall I call him ? '' `` On no account , '' Mr. Fentolin begged . `` Presently he will appear , in plenty of time . There is the morning to be passed -- barely eleven o'clock , I think , now . I shall sit in my chair , and sink a little down , and dream of these beautiful lights , these rolling , foam-flecked waves , these patches of blue and shifting green . I can form them in my brain . I can make a picture there , even though my fingers refuse to move .