Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. Gerald’s breath caught. No, this was imbecile. "Quilt!—Mendez!—Where are you?" vociferated Wild, sounding his whistle for the third time. On their left the river, with its gloomy pile of buildings on the opposite side, and a huge revolving advertisement throwing its strange reflection upon the black water.
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