about four o'clock
Cold horror crawled in his brain like a delirium -- horror of himself , of his morbid flesh , of that moribund body unfit to sheathe the clean fire of life . The thought of struggling to keep animate that corrupt Self , tainted by the breath of Death , was invincibly terrible to him . All sense of human obligation disappeared from his cosmos ; remained only the biting hunger for eternal peace , rest , freedom from the bondage of existence ... . At about four o'clock the train stopped to drop the dining-car . Wholly swayed by blind impulse , Whitaker got up , took his hand-bag and left the car . On the station platform he found himself pelted by a pouring rain . He had left Town in a sodden drizzle , dull and dismal enough in all conscience ; here was a downpour out of a sky three shades lighter than India ink -- a steadfast , grim rain that sluiced the streets like a gigantic fire-hose , brimming the gutters with boiling , muddy torrents .