There was something terribly desolate about these things; the room was very bare, a grandfather clock Ticked solemnly in the corner, there were a few plates and cups on the dresser, an old calendar hung from a dusty nail and, blown by the wind from the cracked window, tip-tapped like a stealthy footstep against the wall.
"Fortitude"
Hugh Walpole
He sat at a little desk in one dark corner under one of the gas-jets, and Herr Gottfried, huddled up as usual, with his hair sticking out above the desk like a mop, sat under the other; an old brass clock, perched on a heap of books, Ticked away the minutes.
"Fortitude"
Hugh Walpole
No customers came; Herr Gottfried worked away at his desk, the brass clock Ticked, Peter sat listening, waiting.
"Fortitude"
Hugh Walpole