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She looks downcast. In the packed carriage perhaps nobody notices. She covers her face with her hands. Her fingers reach up to her eyebrows. She digs her fingers into her eye sockets and rubs her eyes roughly. The flesh on her cheeks rolls round under her palms. And then she looks up. Could be crying. Could be tiredness. Her thoughts are inwards but show on her face. Unresolved thoughts. She grips her mouth with one hand. Unconsciously distorting it as her thoughts toss and turn. After, her mouth looks fuzzy, lipstick lightly smudged, like a painter doing an impressionist portrait. What thoughts? What troubles?