Arrival of the Bloor train, hair whipped up in a frenzy

Caucasian woman, late 40s, brown frizzy hair pulled back in a leather clip, wearing a black quilted jacket. Your hands are porous. Your philtrum is long. Forgive me, you look a little like Homer. And it's a packed train. There's a stray hair on your jacket grazing against my hand on the pole.

Fingersmith, Sarah Waters (Riverhead Books)

Page 157:

My heart gave a jump. I put the bags out of sight, in the shadow of the bed, and stood and listened. No sound at all. I went to the door to the parlour, and looked inside. The window-curtains were open and let the moonlight in; but the room was empty, Maud was gone.

Ooh, serendipity. Sarah, I do hope you're listening:

A sharp rap came at the door, Barb needing her face cream. Alice dove under the covers. A beat passed and Barb entered, moving quickly past Cass into the bathroom. Cass whispered after her, “She’s asleep,” and continued to stand in the middle of the room for no good reason, her nightgown pushed up. Barb stepped back into the room, face-to-face with the teenager's hips.

“You girls should close those blinds if you don’t want people seeing in.”

Barb left and Cass got into the bed, her back turned to Alice. Alice trained her eye on the night table waiting for the sounds from the next room to stop. Bowl of pocket change. Sweat-stained watchband. Emery board and nail polish. The neon clock bled 9:25 PM. It was over. Not so much rejected as defeated.