seven o’clock
Oh ! '' She started to her feet , convinced that if Piero heard her , he would answer , `` Yes , come ! '' She stood a moment as if turned to stone , her hands pressed to her forehead ; then she moved slowly , like one walking in her sleep , left the room , crossed the hall and went down into the garden . It was raining so hard , the sky , still rent from time to time by lightning , was so dark , that although it was not yet seven o'clock , on that February evening it seemed almost like night . Just as she was , with bare head , Jeanne went out into the cold and streaming rain . Without hastening her steps , she took , not the avenue of orange-trees on the right , but the path which , on the left , leads downwards , between two rows of great agaves , to a little grove of laurels , cypresses and olives , to which roses cling . She passed the great pine that looks towards the Crelian and winding down , on the right by a long curve of paths , she reached the spring which an ancient sarcophagus receives on the steep slope , within a belt of myrtles , a few steps below the gardener 's little house .