seven o'clock
The silence was profound . Troubled , disturbed , Vanamee went away , passing out of the garden , descending the hill . He forded Broderson Creek where it intersected the road to Guadalajara , and went on across Quien Sabe , walking slowly , his head bent down , his hands clasped behind his back , thoughtful , perplexed . At seven o'clock , in the bedroom of his ranch house , in the white-painted iron bedstead with its blue-grey army blankets and red counterpane , Annixter was still asleep , his face red , his mouth open , his stiff yellow hair in wild disorder . On the wooden chair at the bed-head , stood the kerosene lamp , by the light of which he had been reading the previous evening . Beside it was a paper bag of dried prunes , and the limp volume of `` Copperfield , '' the place marked by a slip of paper torn from the edge of the bag . Annixter slept soundly , making great work of the business , unable to take even his rest gracefully .