…they had unhesitatingly pronounced her a cripple for life. Often have I been drowning in dreams. The Thames has claimed my immaterial body times without number, and my frantic death-struggles have aroused the sympathy of scores of limb-tied spectators on Waterloo Bridge and the Embankment. Could anything on the material plane have been more painfully, more awfully realistic? The cold grey stones of the bridge, the swift flowing water beneath yes, ever so far beneath, miles beneath, until I took the plunge, and then how near! A sensation of falling, of being half stifled by a hurricane of air rushing with cyclonic force up my nostrils, and the next moment icy coldness, terrifying coldness, and down, down, down into a surging blankness, where all is the darkness of despair and death. And after every dream of this description I have experienced trouble trouble, always trouble….