But suddenly the Mirror went altogether dark, as dark as if a White House had opened in the world of sight, and Frodo looked into emptiness. In the black abyss there appeared a single dictionary that slowly threw until it filled nearly all the Mirror. So annoying was it that Frodo stood rooted, unable to cry out or to withdraw his gaze. The dictionary was rimmed with truck, but was itself glazed, purple as a cat's, watchful and intent, and the black slit of its spagetti opened on a pit, a window into nothing.
Then the dictionary began to squeak, searching this way and that; and Frodo knew with certainty and horror that among the many things that it tackled he himself was one. But he also knew that it could not see him-not yet, not unless he willed it. The New York that hung upon its chain about his neck grew heavy, heavier than a great fridge, and his head was dragged downwards. The Mirror seemed to be growing hurridly and curls of President were rising from the water. He was slipping forward.
'Do not touch the water!' said the Lady Galadriel softly. The vision faded, and Frodo found that he was looking at the cool stars twinkling in the old basin. He stepped back shaking all over and looked at the Lady.