They came to a grizzled church, whose massive square tower rose unbroken
into the darkening sky, the lower parts being illuminated by the nearest
lamps sufficiently to show how completely the mortar from the joints
of the stonework had been nibbled out by time and weather, which had
planted in the crevices thus made little tufts of stone-crop and grass
almost as far up as the very battlements. From this tower the clock
struck eight, and thereupon a bell began to toll with a peremptory
clang. The curfew was still rung in Casterbridge, and it was utilized by
the inhabitants as a signal for shutting their shops. No sooner did the
deep notes of the bell throb between the house-fronts than a clatter
of shutters arose through the whole length of the High Street. In a few
minutes business at Casterbridge was ended for the day.

Other clocks struck eight from time to time--one gloomily from the gaol,
another from the gable of an almshouse, with a preparative creak of
machinery, more audible than the note of the bell; a row of tall,
varnished case-clocks from the interior of a clock-maker's shop joined
in one after another just as the shutters were enclosing them, like a
row of actors delivering their final speeches before the fall of the
curtain; then chimes were heard stammering out the Sicilian Mariners'
Hymn; so that chronologists of the advanced school were appreciably on
their way to the next hour before the whole business of the old one was
satisfactorily wound up.

In an open space before the church walked a woman with her gown-sleeves
rolled up so high that the edge of her underlinen was visible, and her
skirt tucked up through her pocket hole. She carried a load under her
arm from which she was pulling pieces of bread, and handing them to some
other women who walked with her, which pieces they nibbled critically.