Perhaps she could recover reality for him.
He went to her.
He found her waiting for him in the little drawing-room and he could not see her.

He knew then that the Pursuing Shadow had taken a new step.

It was literally physically true.

The room was there, the shining things, the knick-knacks, the mirror, the scent of oranges.

He could see her body, her black dress, her eyes, her white neck, the movement towards him that she made when she saw him coming, but there was nothing there.
It was as though he had been asked to love a picture.
He could not think of her at all as Margaret Craven or of himself as Olva Dune.