“Hands? For what? I don't even know who you are.”

“He doesn't answer straight away. He lets go of the strap of his bag, and the bag settles against his leg with a soft, damp sound, and he puts both hands where she can see them, hanging loose at his sides. The tallow-flies drift a half-step nearer, curious, and he keeps his eyes on her face and not on the brass hook. "Joseph," he says. "No one, really. I came down the spur because the line went dark before the station did, and I wanted to see who kept it." He glances back at the row of black lamp-posts, then at her again, and something in the set of his jaw settles. "That's a poor answer, I know. Try this one: I've got two hours before the Train goes, and I'd rather spend them useful."”