A quarter to
four
An occasional sound of traffic penetrated into the room , -- strangely mournful , a reminder of the immense and ineffable melancholy of a city which could not wholly lose itself in sleep . The window lightened . He could descry his wife 's portable clock on the night-table . A quarter to four . Turning over savagely in bed , he muttered : `` My night 's done for . And nearly five hours to breakfast . Good God ! ''