"They don't know," he added.
I looked a little more attentively at his face.
"There are dreams," he said, "and dreams."
That sort of proposition I never dispute.
"I suppose--" he hesitated. "Do you ever dream? I mean
vividly."
"I dream very little," I answered. "I doubt if I have three
vivid dreams in a year."
"Ah!" he said, and seemed for a moment to collect his
thoughts.
"Your dreams don't mix with your memories?" he asked abruptly.
"You don't find yourself in doubt; did this happen or did it not?"
"Hardly ever. Except just for a momentary hesitation now and
then. I suppose few people do."
"Does he say--?" He indicated the book.
"Says it happens at times and gives the usual explanation
about intensity of impression and the like to account for its not
happening as a rule. I suppose you know something of these
theories--"
"Very little--except that they are wrong."
His emaciated hand played with the strap of the window for a
time. I prepared to resume reading, and that seemed to precipitate
his next remark. He leant forward almost as though he would touch
me.
"Isn't there something called consecutive dreaming--that goes
on night after night?"
"I believe there is. There are cases given in most books on
mental trouble."
"Mental trouble! Yes. I daresay there are.
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