ten o'clock
She moved on . In Stuyvesant Square were a first few harbingers of summer scattered here and there -- couples forcing the gladsome season of the dim park bench ; solitary brooders who can sit so long , so droop-shouldered , and so deeply in silence . On one of these benches , beside a slim , scant-skirted , light-spatted silhouette , Stella Schump sat finally down . It was ten o'clock . There was a sense of panic , which she felt mostly at her throat , rising in her . Then she would force herself into a state of quiet , hand on bundle , nictitating , as it were -- eyes opening , eyes closing . The figure beside her slid over a bit , spreading the tiny width of skirt as if to reserve the space between them .