afternoon, about four o'clock
At the end of a month I was very dejected . It was in the autumn , and I determined to make , before winter came , an excursion through Normandy , a country with which I was unacquainted . I began my journey , in the best of spirits , at Rouen , and for eight days I wandered about , passive , ravished , and enthusiastic , in that ancient city , that astonishing museum of extraordinary Gothic monuments . But one afternoon , about four o'clock , as I was sauntering slowly through a seemingly unattractive street , by which there ran a stream as black as the ink called `` Eau de Robec , '' my attention , fixed for the moment on the quaint , antique appearance of some of the houses , was suddenly attracted by the view of a series of second-hand furniture shops , which followed one another , door after door . Ah ! they had carefully chosen their locality , these sordid traffickers in antiquities , in that quaint little street , overlooking the sinister stream of water , under those tile and slate-pointed roofs on which still grinned the vanes of bygone days . At the end of these grim storehouses you saw piled up sculptured chests , Rouen , Sevres , and Moustier 's pottery , painted statues , others of oak , Christs , Virgins , Saints , church ornaments , chasubles , capes , even sacred vases , and an old gilded wooden tabernacle , where a god had hidden himself away .