She listened to me for days and days while I held forth, laying myself disgustingly bare, fighting with fantasies and points of pride, and she never lost patience, far from it. She only tried to help me get over my foolish and futile anxiety. She didn’t quite get the point of my ravings, but she always took my part against my phantoms or with them, whichever I preferred. She was so gentle and persuasive that I grew accustomed to her kindness and took it almost personally. But I felt that I was beginning to cheat on my so-called destiny and stopped telling her everything that passed through my mind. I crawled back into myself all alone, just delighted to observe that I was even more miserable than before, because I had brought a new kind of distress and something that resembled true feeling into my solitude.