about seven in the morning
They went along toward the establishment , and I returned home by the highway , envying the energy of that man , who was getting himself ready to fight for an ideal . And I thought with melancholy of the monotonous life of the little town . The fast Paris-Ventimiglia train , one of the Grand European Expresses , had stopped a moment at Marseilles . It was about seven in the morning of a winter day . The huge cars , with their bevelled-glass windows , dripped water from all parts ; the locomotive puffed , resting from its run , and the bellows between car and car , like great accordeons , had black drops slipping down their corrugations . The rails shone ; they crossed over one another , and fled into the distance until lost to sight . The train windows were shut ; silence reigned in the station ; from time to time there resounded a violent hammering on the axles ; a curtain here or there was raised , and behind the misted glass the dishevelled head of a woman appeared .