She was still in her outdoor things - the brown tweed coat which she had had in her trousseau, and the brown wool beret which Aunt Emmaline had crocheted for her. The coat was getting very shabby now, but anything that Marion wore took the lines of her long, graceful body. She was much, much too thin, but if she walked about in her bones she would still be graceful. With her dark hair damp from the fog, the beret pushed back, the grey eyes fixed in a daze of grief and fatigue, she had still the distinction which heightens beauty and survives it.
(from The Case is Closed, by Patricia Wentworth)
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