The waste-paper basket had shifted, and there was a steady tapping at the window. She didn't need to open the curtains to know what was doing it.
She could feel her mind going crick, crick, crick, in time with the tapping, a little tear in paper every time, in the paper of the books she kept piling, piling on the waste-paper basket. Crick crick crick in her head and creak creak creak from the window as the pressure on the panes increased. The panes of the window and the tiles of the bathroom floor: one and the same.