My hands went out into the darkness, grabbing, reaching.
But all the while I was listening with that deep, undisturbed content to the terrific fire that seemed to shake the earth and heaven to pieces.
All I could get hold of was the sheet and blankets.
I had arrived back at my bed again.
Well, I must turn away, I must look elsewhere.
And then I quietly and unexpectedly put out my hand and turned up the light in a fit of desperate defiance of the German brutes outside.
In a flash I saw my suit-case. It was locked. I saw my powder puff. I saw my bag. Then I put out the light and picked up my powder-puff, got to my bag, and fumbled for the keys, and opened my suit-case and dragged out a wrapper, but no slippers came under my fingers, and I wanted slippers in case of going out into the streets.
But by this time I had discovered that nothing matters at all, and I quietly turned up the light again, being by then a confirmed and age-old fatalist.
Standing in front of the looking-glass, I found myself slowly powdering my face.
Then the sound of people rushing along the corridor reached me, and I opened my door and went out.