There is no looking glass here and I don’t know what I am like now. I remember watching myself brush my hair and how my eyes looked back at me. The girl I saw was myself yet not quite myself. Long ago when I was a child and very lonely I tried to kiss her. But the glass was between us — hard, cold, and misted over with my breath. Now they have taken everything away. What am I doing in this place and who am I?

— Jean Rhys, Wide Sargasso Sea

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