years ago. Then a fake scene supposed to take place here in my rooms, of a person begging another to stop and 'get away you brute,' afterwards asking for a drink of water."
It was while Tony was away. He used to come and see me regularly while he was at home and though, when I was not "attacked" I was quite my ordinary self, he used to listen when I talked of this outside influence, and tried to understand it, and I felt he was privately trying to find the cause.
But it was at that time when he was away and his letters came and I lost interest and forgot to answer them that the worst happened.
One morning, after a sleepless night in which I imagined that someone I was linked up with, was feverish and that I must not move, I lay for about half an hour in one position, a voice begging me to lie still, that someone was in a straight-jacket and every movement I made hurt it.
"Keep your eyes shut," I heard whispered.
I shut my eyes. I had the impression of someone protecting another—this other whose shadow I was—lying still.
So I lay there with my eyes shut, just as if I were dead, my arms across my breast, almost afraid to breathe.
And then, as I lay for fully half an hour I heard a voice out of somewhere say: "Look at her, Naomi! Is she hypnotised? Look at her. Give me your hand—Here! Look!"
It was the voice of the White Priestess and I heard Naomi's voice say:
"Tina! Tina! Are you dead? Tina! Speak!"
But I lay still, my eyes shut, obeying the voice near my pillow, painfully longing to move but determined to endure it heroically.
And then a knock came at the door and my sister, Bessie, came in.
They were anxious about me, all my family, but they thought it was imagination and that I was just "run down."
"Here's a letter for you. I've brought it in from the hall table," she said. "What's the matter? Aren't you well?"
I hardly dared move my lips. This entity I was attached to was begging me—or the protector was—not to move my lips if I could help it.
I signalled to her with frowns to put the letter down and not to worry me.
But Bessie was not to be put off like that.
"Here's your letter." Then in a sensible voice: "Tina! Don't be silly—get up! Why don't you read your letter?"
As I write now I am able somewhat to see clearly what was going on.
I say again at this time, I must have been experiencing what so many seemingly insane people must often suffer. My mind was full of ideas that were as real to me as if
