It was not until a few days later that I had another appointment with Miss M_. Once again, I met her in her room. I sat down, smiled at her, and made a play of consulting my notes.

"When we last spoke, you told me that you enjoyed writing poetry."

Miss M_ nodded her head. "I did."

"Do you have any work that you could show me? I think it would give me a valuable insight into your condition."

Miss M_ shuddered delicately then lowered her gaze. "I'm sorry. I don't have any of my poems here."

I reached into my satchel and pulled out a ream of quarto paper. I placed the pages on the nightstand. "I would very much like to see some of your work. Are you sure you couldn't write something?"

Miss M_ stared at the paper for a moment, transfixed by its appearance. Then she took the sheets and placed them on her lap. "I can't. The staff have said that I am not allowed a pen."

I reached into my pocket and brought out a small fountain pen that I had purchased from a nearby stationers. I placed the pen on the nightstand, then I retrieved from my bag a small bottle of black indian ink that I had found in my lodgings. I smiled at Miss M_.

"As your doctor, I believe that examining your writings may provide a valuable insight into your condition and be instrumental in determining a cure. I am sure that the staff would not object to this. If they do, then refer them to me."

Miss M_ took the pen and ink. She looked at them as if she was seeing such items for the first time. Then, as if coming to a decision, she put them and the paper on the nightstand. "If you think it will do me good?"

"I do. The next time I see you, I want to hear you read some of your poetry."

I stood up to leave the room. As I did so, I noticed that Miss M_ had left her journal on the bedspread. The book looked to be the twin of the one that Professor C_ had read from - the book which contained the poem that had had such an effect on me. I could see the title picked out in gold leaf on the book's cover: The Voice of the Machine. I pointed at the book. "Is this one of yours?"

Miss M_ nodded. "Yes. The staff let me keep it. They thought it might be good for me to have something to remind me of the outside world."

"Does it have any of your poems in it?"

"No. It was a present from a friend."

I picked up the book and looked for the author's name. I found it just beneath the title, but in much smaller letters. Somehow, I was not altogether surprised at the revelation that the book had been edited by Professor C_. I turned to Miss M_. "May I borrow this?" I asked.

Miss M_ stifled a gasp. Her face had taken on an unhealthy pallor. Suddenly I felt concerned at her plight.

"Are you alright?"

"Please; I would like to keep my book."

I put the volume back on her bed. "Of course. I understand. But, please, I wish to see some of your work."

Miss M_ nodded, her face showing a combination of relief and assent. As I left the room, I felt guilty that I had succeeded in manipulating my patient to my own ends. I consoled myself that it was for her own good.