eight o’clock in the morning
I know what my father would think about it , if he knew . And now I come to the great event of this morning , from which I am still gasping . That villain Cullingworth has cut the painter , and left me to drift as best I may . My post comes at eight o'clock in the morning , and I usually get my letters and take them into bed to read them . There was only one this morning , addressed in his strange , unmistakable hand . I made sure , of course , that it was my promised remittance , and I opened it with a pleasurable feeling of expectation . This is a copy of what I read : -- `` When the maid was arranging your room after your departure , she cleared some pieces of torn paper from under the grate .