eleven o'clock
It was Saturday night -- a winter night in which the wind hummed through every draughty crevice between the windows and under the doors and down the chimneys . Outside , in the Hornsey Road , horse-omnibuses rattled by and the shops that were still open at eleven o'clock glistened with light . Up the road , at the butcher 's just below the Plough public-house , a small crowd lingered , turning over scraps of meat , while the butcher himself , chanting `` Lovely , lovely , lovely ! '' in a kind of ecstasy , plunged again into a fresh piece of meat the attractive legend , `` Oh , mother , look ! Three ha ` pence a pound ! ''