Then the city became darker and quieter, though no less crowded, and for a 
few blocks they saw only dark-haired men with mustaches and women who were 
nothing more than columns of black fabric. Then Fiona smelled anise and garlic, 
and they passed into Vietnamese territory for a short time. She would have 
enjoyed stopping at one of the sidewalk café for a bowl of pho, but 
her father rode on, pursuing the tide that was
ebbing down the Thames, and in a few more minutes they had come once again to 
the bank. It was lined with ancient masonry warehouses—a category of 
structure now so obsolete as to defy explanation—which had been 
converted into offices.