The engines of this valley have a whistle, the echoes of which sound like iterated gasps and sobs. I always think of them as crude music from the soul of Avey. We sat there holding hands. Our palms were soft and warm against each other. (60)
I just thought this passage was interesting because it describes something so modern, an engine, that has a particular crude, and possibly unsophisticated, sound of something like the “Cotton Song” (13).