half past seven
in the morning
Though the spirit thirsted for sweet things , habit chained him to the squalor of the Café Delphine . When the quiet Somersetshire household knelt around the drawing-room for evening prayers , I speculated on the stage of intoxication at which my lonely master had arrived . I was a million miles from speculating on what was really happening , and when I received a curt uncharacteristic note from Paragot a fortnight later begging me to return to Paris at once , a day or two before the formal expiry of my visit , it only occurred to me that he might be ill . * * * * * The crowded train steamed into the Gare Saint-Lazare at half past seven in the morning . I was desperately anxious to get to Paragot , and bag in hand I stood with a sickening feeling of suspense by the open door , waiting for the train to slow down . I sprang out . In an instant the line of porters were odd dots of blue in the throng that swarmed out of the carriages .