Via Rail, Quebec-Windsor Corridor

Caucasian woman, 19-20, wearing jeans with holes above the right knee, waist-length fatigue jacket, wavy, brown hair parted in the middle.

The Hours, Michael Cunningham (Picador)

Page 131:

Clarissa believed then and she believes today that the dune in Wellfleet will, in some sense, accompany her forever. Whatever else happens, she will always have had that. She will always have been young and indestructibly healthy, a little hungover, wearing Richard's cotton sweater as he wraps a hand familiarly around her neck and Louis stands slightly apart, watching the waves.

The train was very late, and very packed. An odour permeated the car, sweet rot coming warm through the vents. The speaker was broken, explanations delivered in a signal of oppressively high feedback, the only truly comprehensible noise the college boy behind her, his cell glued to his ear, his message one of determination, his goal to call every last girl in his phone book in an attempt to get laid. She remained seated when they reached the station, closing in on the last pages of the book. Eventually, she stepped in line, inching her way to the front. Two photographs were afixed to the walls on either side. "This one isn't bad." She pointed to the print, a B&W shot of birds. And she really meant it.