She no longer looks at herself, naked. As if the image of her was already a memory, a distant reflection, a black and white photograph in a family album. It was another person who had forged this self-image in the world. A little girl, maybe, or a young woman. Since then, she has been alone. Faced with the announcement, faced with loss, before his own femininity, the pretuim doloris is already his illness. That's what she seems to mean, scream, cry, to the life that goes on out there. Make everyone concerned. And yet she is alone, and she no longer sees herself naked.