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"
Am
I
what
?
"
he
cried
.
But
she
was
gone-running
in
the
moonlight
.
Her
front
door
shut
gently
.
"
Happy
!
Of
all
the
nonsense
.
"
He
stopped
laughing
.
He
put
his
hand
into
the
glove-hole
of
his
front
door
and
let
it
know
his
touch
.
The
front
door
slid
open
.
Of
course
I
'm
happy
.
What
does
she
think
?
I
'm
not
?
he
asked
the
quiet
rooms
.
He
stood
looking
up
at
the
ventilator
grille
in
the
hall
and
suddenly
remembered
that
something
lay
hidden
behind
the
grille
,
something
that
seemed
to
peer
down
at
him
now
.
He
moved
his
eyes
quickly
away
.
What
a
strange
meeting
on
a
strange
night
.
He
remembered
nothing
like
it
save
one
afternoon
a
year
ago
when
he
had
met
an
old
man
in
the
park
and
they
had
talked
...
.
Montag
shook
his
head
.
He
looked
at
a
blank
wall
.
The
girl
's
face
was
there
,
really
quite
beautiful
in
memory
:
astonishing
,
in
fact
.
She
had
a
very
thin
face
like
the
dial
of
a
small
clock
seen
faintly
in
a
dark
room
in
the
middle
of
a
night
when
you
waken
to
see
the
time
and
see
the
clock
telling
you
the
hour
and
the
minute
and
the
second
,
with
a
white
silence
and
a
glowing
,
all
certainty
and
knowing
what
it
has
to
tell
of
the
night
passing
swiftly
on
toward
further
darknesses
but
moving
also
toward
a
new
sun
.
"
What
?
"
asked
Montag
of
that
other
self
,
the
subconscious
idiot
that
ran
babbling
at
times
,
quite
independent
of
will
,
habit
,
and
conscience
.
He
glanced
back
at
the
wall
.
How
like
a
mirror
,
too
,
her
face
.
Impossible
;
for
how
many
people
did
you
know
that
refracted
your
own
light
to
you
?
People
were
more
often
-
he
searched
for
a
simile
,
found
one
in
his
work-torches
,
blazing
away
until
they
whiffed
out
.
How
rarely
did
other
people
's
faces
take
of
you
and
throw
back
to
you
your
own
expression
,
your
own
innermost
trembling
thought
?
