"I'm not going to be hypnotised, you know. He's a man before he's a hypnotist—I'm not afraid, do you think I am?"
I had written out all I wanted to say, for at that time, I could not trust my memory and had to write in those intervals of rest allowed me by the voices.
I sat there in the room and waited, chatting with a small boy who was waiting for his father.
"I don't want you to hypnotise me," I said quickly as the doctor motioned me to a seat.
I noticed that as I read my paper to him he kept trying to keep his eyes from meeting mine.
Here was a difference to my other doctor. There he sat and, having asked him if he could make me unclairaudient, I proceeded to read him all the many reasons I had for wishing to be made deaf.
He said:
"There are voices and voices you know. You must learn to differentiate."
"Yes," I said, and went on reading.
"There now," he got up when I was half through, "you've had your half-hour."
"Oh no," I said, "I must read to the end."
I was determined that this time I should be heard and appreciated.
With a half-amused look in his eyes he patiently took his seat again, picking up a second paper I had let fall and handing it to me.
And presently I left him.
"Leave it to me," he said.
And I left it to him.
As I walked down the street I felt suddenly a great feeling of fatigue come over me and as if my inside were being torn out.
I had told him I knew something about mind-reading, and felt that I had had my mind snatched from me as I lay in bed at night.
He smiled kindly and said:
"Oh no, it can't be done."
"Oh yes it can," I said. "I know it has been done."
I had dangled the little Rosary before his eyes but he did not seem interested as I thought he would be. I had felt so much lately that anything might have brought the influence, that I felt I must give the rosary back as a possible cause.
And so that feeling as if my inside was being torn out of me.
Then the voice which was always with me said:
"Was it really Dr. Weston? What about the Man in the Next Room? He does all the work."
