She couldn't go home. Oh, it wasn't home anymore; it was only a house where people were planning horrible things. It was Egbert's house; it wasn't hers. She hadn't got anywhere to go - she hadn't got a home - she hadn't got anything.
These things kept coming into her mind like a lot of aimless people struggling into a room and drifting out again; they didn't do anything, they just came in and drifted out, and went away.
Margot went on walking, and the aimless thoughts kept on coming and going. The thick moisture that filled the air with fog began to condense and come down in rain. Soon she was very wet. The rain became heavier; it soaked through her blue serge coat and began to drip from the brim of her hat. The coat had a collar of grey fur. The rain collected on it and trickled down the back of her neck.
Only that afternoon Margot had written to Stephanie that there was something frightfully romantic about being a penniless orphan. It didn't feel a bit romantic now; it felt cold, and frightening, and desperately miserable.
(from Grey Mask, by Patricia Wentworth)
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