three o’clock
Tournebroche , our sentiments are composed of a thousand things we can not detect for their smallness , and the destiny of our immortal soul depends sometimes on a puff too light to bend a blade of grass . We are the toy of the winds . But pass me , if you please , ` The Rudiments of Vossius , ' the red edges of which I see stand out under your left arm . '' On this same day , after dinner at three o'clock , M. d'Asterac led us , my teacher and myself , to walk in the park . He conducted us to the west , where Rueil and Mont Valérien are visible . It was the deepest and most desolate part . Ivy and grass , cropped by the rabbits , covered the paths , now and then obstructed by large trunks of dead trees .