Another burning gulp and she returns to the diary. Her eyes sweep across the room, torn apart, a flurry of newspapers and what remains of Marion Lestrange. She commits each word to memory, nothing too small, too insignificant. She rehearses her words out loud, tries to understand her command of language, imagines how she speaks. She can almost feel Marion in the room with her by the time the sky begins to darken. But she is frustratingly evasive in later entries, almost seemingly as the direness of her situation increases. 