eleven o'clock
There , too , were shapes of men and women hurrying home , and the great blocked shapes of the houses where they lived . A halo hovered above the City -- a high haze of yellow light , dimming the stars . The black , slow figure of a policeman moved noiselessly along the railings opposite . From then till eleven o'clock , when he would make himself some cocoa on a little spirit-lamp , the writer of the `` Book of Universal Brotherhood '' would alternate between his bent posture above his manuscript and his blank consideration of the night ... . With a jerk , Hilary came back to his reflections beneath the bust of Socrates . `` Each of us has a shadow in those places -- in those streets ! '' There certainly was a virus in that notion .