twelve o'clock
Then she leaned back a moment later exhausted in her chair , her face thrown up , her eyes closing wearily . In her hand she held a small chamois bag filled with gold ; when her chips were exhausted she would rise silently , float like a shadow to the desk , lay a handful of gold from the bag upon the counter , sweep the ivories into her hand , and noiselessly regain her seat . She seemed to know no one , and no one to know her , unless it might have been the croupier , who , I thought , watched her closely when he pushed over her winnings , parting his lips a little wider , his smile a trifle more cringing and devilish . At twelve o'clock she was still playing , her face like chalk , her eyes bloodshot , her teeth clenched fast , her hair disheveled across her face . The game went on . When the clock reached the half-hour the man in gray pushed back his chair , gathered up his winnings , and moved to the door , an attendant handing him his hat . With the exception of the Parisienne , who had gone some time before , taking her companion with her , the devotees were the same , -- the two Englishmen still exchanging clean , white Bank of England notes , the German and Haytian losing , but calm as mummies , the fat , oily woman , melting like a red candle , the perspiration streaming down her face .