Explore "A Waif's Progress" by Rhoda Broughton on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Though early hours -- except in the topsy-turvy sense of seeing the sunrise overnight -- had never entered into the scheme of Miss Ransome's existence, and she was as little indebted to the lamb as to the lark for an example, yet never had clock uttered a more welcome sound than that single stroke of half-past ten, which made Mrs. Tancred, as if by machinery, fold up her large seam, restore it to its basket, and rise from her chair. The clocks at Stillington struck all together, for all were true to Greenwich as the needle to the pole.
"You are probably tired," said the hostess; and the guest was reduced to such a jelly-like state of tremor and self-distrust that she did not know whether to acquiesce in or disclaim the accusation. If she admitted fatigue, Camilla would probably despise her; if she denied, it would very likely -- judging by her past experience of husbands and wives -- be looked upon as a manœuvre for procuring a _tête-à-tête_ with Edward in the smoking-room. So she answered, with deferential hesitation --