They were going up the slope into Waterloo Station. The horns were the worst, slipping in and out of tune and rushing the easy sections, fighting everyone else. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. Work becomes distasteful; one thinks of holidays. She frowned and gripped her hands about her knees very tightly.
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