It was in no sense confessional; it was a state of mind in the patient the doctor had already anticipated. You’ll be telling me Gerald did not catch you snooping at the Bicknacres, I suppose. It was you! It was exactly you, but it was probably the photo they thought it was your mother! I dug it up after combing the Reader’s Guide To Periodical Literature for like, six hours straight. “How old are you?” “Sixteen. . Mr. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. They don’t now.
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