But it was Reardon's habit to begin the serious work of the day at about three o'clock, and to continue with brief interruptions until ten or eleven; in many respects an awkward arrangement, but enforced by the man's temperament and his poverty.
One evening he sat at his desk with a slip of manuscript paper before him.

It was the hour of sunset.

His outlook was upon the backs of certain large houses skirting Regent's Park, and lights had begun to show here and there in the windows: in one room a man was discoverable dressing for dinner, he had not thought it worth while to lower the blind; in another, some people were playing billiards.

The higher windows reflected a rich glow from the western sky.
For two or three hours Reardon had been seated in much the same attitude.

Occasionally he dipped his pen into the ink and seemed about to write: but each time the effort was abortive.