You are my mind."
"Yes. I am your mind."
"You, my Mind, know that I met to-day a man called the Wanderer, whose
body you saw when you were in my eyes. Do you know that or not?"
"I know it. I am your mind."
"You know, Mind, that the man was mad. He had suffered for many years
from a delusion. In pursuit of the fixed idea he had wandered far
through the world. Do you know whither his travels had led him?"
"I do not know. That is not in your mind. You did not know it when I
became your mind."
"Good. Tell me, Mind, what was this man's delusion?"
"He fancied that he loved a woman whom he could not find."
"The man must be cured. You must know that he was mad and is now sane.
You, my Mind, must see that it was really a delusion. You see it now."
"Yes. I see it."
Unorna watched the waking sleeper narrowly. It was now night, but the
sky had cleared and the starlight falling upon the snow in the lonely,
open place, made it possible to see very well. Unorna seemed as
unconscious of the bitter cold as her subject, whose body was in a
state past all outward impressions. So far she had gone through all the
familiar process of question and answer with success, but this was not
all. She knew that if, when he awoke, the name he loved still remained
in his memory, the result would not be accomplished. She must
produce entire forgetfulness, and to do this, she must wipe out every
association, one by one.
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