Lady Congreve expected her at five.
The gilt clock at Verrey's was striking five.
Florinda looked at it with a dull expression, like an animal.

She looked at the clock; looked at the door; looked at the long glass opposite; disposed her cloak; drew closer to the table, for she was pregnant--no doubt about it, Mother Stuart said, recommending remedies, consulting friends; sunk, caught by the heel, as she tripped so lightly over the surface.
Her tumbler of pinkish sweet stuff was set down by the waiter; and she sucked, through a straw, her eyes on the looking-glass, on the door, now soothed by the sweet taste.

When Nick Bramham came in it was plain, even to the young Swiss waiter, that there was a bargain between them.

Nick hitched his clothes together clumsily; ran his fingers through his hair; sat down, to an ordeal, nervously.

She looked at him; and set off laughing; laughed--laughed--laughed.