-Darling, I've a confession to make.
-I'm listening.

As a doctor, you irritate me.
I'm here, swooning with love.
You ask me a question...

and I don't like you anymore.
Do you have to sit there smiling...

like some know-it-all

I can't help it, that's
what happens in analysis...

As the doctor begins to uncover
the truth...

the patient develops a fine hearty
hatred of the doctor.

You're going to hate me a great
deal before we're through.

-And you're going to like that?
-As a scientist, yes.

And if I biff you one, you'll
consider it a sort of diploma?

-Yes, but don't biff too hard.

I think we should go on
with our investigation.

-We have some new facts now.
-What facts?

You're a doctor, you were in an
accident, your hand was burned...

-and you were in Rome.
-I was never in Rome in my life.

You were either there,
or going there.

You remembered something no doubt
connected with burning your hand.

Rome, think of Rome.
Maybe Rome, ltaly.

When did you go to Rome?
What did you do in Rome?

I remember something.
-Fighter planes spotted us.
-You were flying?

Transport. Medical core.
Over Rome, heading north.

-What happened?
-They hit us.

Caught fire, uniform burned,
bailed out.

What else?
I don't know. It blacks out.
-You left the army?

I probably deserted, I hated it.
I hated killing, I can remember
that much.

Your guilt complex was obviously
inflamed by being a soldier.

Stop it, babbling like some
phoney King Solomon...

half-witted devil talk
that doesn't make sense...