I had a look at myself in Miss Marcy’s dressing-table glass and I looked awful — my hair was in rats’-tails, my face was dirty and my expression simply maudlin. For no reason at all, I grinned at myself. Then I began to think: “Who am I? Who am I?” Whenever I do that, I feel one good push would shove me over the edge of lunacy; so I turned away from the glass and tried to get my mind off myself — I did it by taking an interest in Miss Marcy’s room.
