The Jimmy who stood in front of me now was nothing more than a wavering illusion, a projection based on the memories in Jimmy’s mind of what he looked like in the mirror. He was back-to-front. His hair was parted on the wrong side. His tweed coat was buttoned on the wrong side. His face had that strange lopsidedness that other people’s mirror-images always seem to have. He was himself as he remembered himself, but not as I knew him.
