about midnight
I remember one evening I was sitting on the box struggling with sleep . My eyelids felt glued together and my body , tired out by running about all day , drooped sideways . But I struggled against sleep and tried to look on . It was about midnight . Tatyana Ivanovna , rosy and unassuming as always , was sitting at a little table sewing at her husband 's shirt . Fyodor , sullen and gloomy , was staring at her from one corner , and in the other sat Pobyedimsky , snorting angrily and retreating into the high collar of his shirt . My uncle was walking up and down the room thinking .