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My patient had a dream that turned out, she thought, to be a real memory. “I know you love dreams,” she laughed, glossy hair, shiny shoes, white teeth. I found it quite difficult not to cry as she spoke. That, I think, was her aim—project the sadness into me and then she can carry on pretending everything’s fine. This woman is beautiful, mid-twenties, successful. She delivers her material as though saying: “Pretty gripping stuff, eh?…

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