eight o'clock
He did not keep , as did Semyonov , perfect neatness . A night of work left him with his hair on end , his black beard rough and disordered ; his shirtsleeves were turned up , his arms stained with blood , and in his white apron he looked like some kingly butcher . I was tired , the cold headache was upon me . I wished that I could go , but I knew that both he and I must stay until eight o'clock . While there was work to do nothing mattered , but now in the silence the whole world seemed as empty and foul as a drained and stinking tub . Nikitin looked at me . `` You 're tired , '' he said .