Anyone who has been burgled will agree that the trauma is not just about the loss of possessions, bad enough in itself, but the violation of one’s inner sanctum.
My only personal experience of burglary was when I lived in Sydney, in a ground-floor flat on the northern shores of the harbour.
I awoke one morning to discover my treasured leather jacket, handmade by a Nottingham tailor and irreplaceable, was missing from the hook where it hung, like an artwork, opposite my bed. I knew at once it had been stolen, and exit footprints on the paintwork beneath the (open) window confirmed my fears. I called the police.