He remained in this new world of the senses certainly, but
already he was becoming accustomed to it, clear-headed, keen-sighted,
even reasonable in it. Moved by some strange conviction that he was in
the presence of an inexplicable mystery, he no longer tried to explain
it in some ordinary fashion. He abandoned his theory of insanity, or it
abandoned him. In any case, it was dead, buried, whether he would or no.
He recognized a mystery at present beyond his capacity to understand or
to explain. Having got thus far, and having entered, at Julian's word,
into this present circumstance of sitting, table-turning, or rapping, or
whatever you may choose to call it, he cleared any ordinary furniture of
doctor's prejudices right out of his mind--made a clean sweep of them.
That done--and the doing of it required some strong effort--his mind
was receptive, ready for anything, odd or ordinary, that might come
along. There he sat with his empty room waiting to be filled--the only
reasonable way of waiting for that of which we have no knowledge. He did
not clamour "I won't," or "I will." He said nothing at all, only waited
with the strict desire and intention of recognizing things to be what
they truly were, neither dressing them up nor tearing their garments
off their backs.
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