Lucius Davoren, Volume II by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

They had dined, and the letter was written. A week-old moon shone in the placid heaven; the tender night-stillness had descended upon the always quiet town; lights twinkled gaily from the casements of surrounding villas; like a string of jewels gleamed the lamps of the empty High-street. The slow river wound his sinuous course between the rushes and the willows with scarce a ripple. No sweeter air could have breathed among the leaves, no calmer sky could have o'er-canopied this earth on that night in Verona when young Romeo stole into Capulet's garden under the midnight stars. It was a night made for lovers.

The clock struck the half hour after nine as Geoffrey left the hotel, with his friend's letter in his pocket; assuredly a strange hour in which to visit a lady who had forbidden him to visit her at all. But a man who feels that he is taking a desperate step will hardly stop to consider the details of time or place which may render it a little more or less desperate.