Free I Married A Dead Man by Cornell Woolrich

ripples that hillocks made off in the distance every once in awhile. Going up a little, coming down again. The wavy line of the future.
                    And on the seat opposite her own, and more important by far than all this, snug in a little blue blanket, small face still, small eyes closed--something to cherish, something to love. All there was in the world to love. All there was to go on for, along that wavy line outside.
                    Yes, how different it was now. And--how infinitely preferable the first time had been to this one. Fear rode with her now.
                    There hadn't been fear then. There hadn't been a seat, there hadn't been a bite to eat, there had only been seventeen cents. And just ahead, unguessed, rushing ever nearer with the miles, there had been calamity, horror, the beating of the wings of death.
                    But there hadn't been fear. There hadn't been this gnawing inside. There hadn't been this strain and counterstrain, this pulling one way and pulling the other. There had been the calm, the certainty, of going along the right way, the only way there was to go.
                    The wheels chattered, as they always chatter, on every train that has ever run. But saying now, to her ear alone:
     
                                    " You'd better go back, you'd better go back,
                                    Clicketty-clack, clicketty-clack,
                                    Stop while you can, you still can go back ."
     
     
                    A very small part of her moved, the least part of her moved. Her thumb unbracketed, and her four fingers opened slowly, and the tight white knot they'd made for hours past dissolved. There in its center, exposed now--
                    An Indian-head penny.
                    A Lincoln-head penny.
                    A buffalo nickel.
                    A Liberty-head dime.
                    Seventeen cents. She even knew the dates on them by heart, by now.
     
                                    " Clicketty-clack,
                                    Stop and go back,
                                    You still have the time,
                                    Turn and go back ."
     
                    Slowly the fingers folded up and over again, the thumb crossed over and locked them in place.
                    Then she took the whole fist and struck it distractedly against her forehead and held it there for a moment where it had struck.
                    She stood up suddenly, and tugged at one of the pieces of luggage, and swivelled it around, so that its outermost corner was now inward. The "P H" disappeared. Then she did it to the piece below. The second "P H" disappeared.
                    The fear wouldn't disappear. It wasn't just stencilled on a corner of her, it was all over her.
                    There was a light knock outside the door, and she started as violently as though it had been a resounding crash.
                    "Who's there?" she gasped.
                    A porter's voice answered, "Five mo' minutes fo' Caulfield."
                    She reared from the seat, and ran to the door, flung it open. He was already going down the passage. "No, wait! It can't be--"
                    "It sho' enough is, though, ma'm."
                    "So quickly, though. I didn't think--"
                    He smiled back at her indulgently. "It always comes between Clarendon and Hastings. That's the right place fo' it. And we've had Clarendon