half after eleven
Anne Bullard was at work , and she was free from observation . It must have been nine o'clock when she left the house , a shaken little figure in black , not as neat as usual , but hooked and buttoned , for all that , with no one will ever know what agony of old hands . She was two hours and a half getting to the house , and the rain came at ten o'clock . By half after eleven , when the doorbell rang , she was a sodden mass of wet garments , and her teeth were chattering when I led her into the library . She could not talk . The thing she had come to say was totally beyond her . I put her to bed in her own room .