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“Thank you,” he kept blurting out, and “Sorry,” as they manhandled him inside and slammed the door and flung him down on the cold floor.
And again that strange half-memory brushed mothlike against the Stalker’s mind, the Once-born called Tom kneeling over it in snow and saying, “Miss Fang! It’s not fair! He waited until you were dazzled!” For a moment it felt an odd satisfaction, as though it had returned a favor.
When unconsciousness finally claimed him he had mistaken it for death, and welcomed it, and his last thought was that he was proud he’d helped Tom and Hester get away.
She had thrown away all her family’s traditions with a feeling of relief, like getting rid of old, ill-fitting clothes.
“Then why didn’t you say something?” “Because it’s better to travel hopefully than to arrive,” said the engine master. “I liked your idea of crossing the High Ice. What was this city before we started west? A moving ruin; the only people who hadn’t left were the ones too full up with sorrow to think of anywhere to go. We were more like ghosts than human beings. And now look at us. Look at yourself. The journey’s shaken us up and turned us about and we’re alive again.”

