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When I awoke, without having parted in my sleep with the perception of my wretchedness, the clocks of the Eastward churches were striking five, the candles were wasted out, the fire was dead, and the wind and rain intensified the thick black darkness. (39.102)
Even in the thick of a great, blinding storm, time marches on—it's Pip's one constant. Like death and taxes, but slightly less dire. (Maybe.)
They both raised their eyes as I went in, and both saw an alteration in me. I derived that, from the look they interchanged. (44.1)
Well, sure he's changed: he's grown up into a gentleman. It's almost like both Miss Havisham and Estella think that, because neither of them has changed, no one else will, either. But the world goes on without them.
She gradually withdrew her eyes from me, and turned them on the fire. After watching it for what appeared in the silence and by the light of the slowly wasting candles to be a long time, she was roused by the collapse of some of the red coals, and looked towards me again—at first, vacantly—then, with a gradually concentrating attention. (44.35)
Miss Havisham may never know what time it is, but she's never late: like a wizard, she's always exactly on schedule. She has some deep, almost psychic knowledge of time passing—like she's come to embody time itself. Creeeepy.