I look at my own face, that is reflected in my bulging window: it seems strange to me, I am afraid to gaze too hard at it. But I am afraid, too, to look beyond it, to the night which presses at it. For the night has Millbank in it, with its thick, thick shadows; and in one of those shadows Selina is lying—Selina—she is making me write the name here, she is growing more real, more solid and quick, with every stroking of the nib across the page—Selina. In one of those shadows Selina is lying. Her eyes are open, and she is looking at me.
