ABSTRACT
It is November and there is snow outside. The flakes drop sparkling through the tree branches in St. Giles. 1 They are unreal, they are a snowstorm in a German theatre. The picture makes a Christmas card, Oxford is mediaeval again. The snow has obliterated the passing ages: in three hours Tom will start booming his warning and we will put out our candles and go to bed. The flakes are larger and whiter, each has its own individuality and its own design; when they join they melt and lose their aloofness, and that is the end of everything. I too have my separate individuality in this crowded room. I will drop the curtain and turn from the window and stop dreaming, but I will not lose my aloofness and melt through contact.
