"What I said was conventional. I'm NOT grateful to you for saving the sort of life mine is!"
"I was not thinking of your life."
After a moment he said more quietly: "I know what you mean…. Yes,
I am grateful. Our Government ought to know."
"Then tell me, now."
"You know," he said brutally, "I have only your word that you are what you say you are."
She reddened but replied calmly: "That is true. Let me show you my credentials."
From her muff she drew a packet, opened it, and laid the contents on the bedspread under his eyes. Then she walked to the window and stood there with her back turned looking out at the falling snow.
After a few minutes he called her. She went back to the bedside, replaced the packet in her muff, and stood waiting in silence.
He lay looking up at her very quietly and his bruised young features had lost their hard, sullen expression.
"I'd better tell you all I know," he said, "because there is really no hope of curing me… you don't understand… my will-power is gone. The trouble is with my mind itself. I don't want to be cured…. I WANT what's killing me. I want it now, always, all the time. So before anything happens to me I'd better tell you what I know so that our Government can make the proper investigation. Because what I shall tell you is partly a surmise. I leave it to you to judge—to our Government."