…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….

…its gleaming surface at a time, and a very few sweeps of the oars sufficed to shoot my skiff from one angle to another.The character of my surroundings changed as I advanced; the banks and trees grew in height until little of the sky could be seen; the rapidity of the stream ceased, and the waters became deep and tranquil; whilst over and above all hung a silence that brought with it an exquisite sense of rest, intermingled with which was a faint suggestiveness of something bizarre and ghoulish. An unusually abrupt bend, round which the boat subtly glided, laid before me a spectacle so extraordinary that for some seconds I was almost dazed. I had emerged into a gigantic circular basin of several miles in diameter, and entirely composed of glittering white marble. All around it were steps that led down, down, down, until they were lost to sight…