(Note: Though Annabot is ostensibly downloadable, the attempt to open her produced an error, a string of errors.)
ANNABOT: What now?
HUMAN MACHINE: The Brain, the brain—that is the seat of trouble!
ANNABOT: My brain, whose brain? Those who feel, feel.
HUMAN MACHINE: On the blink?
ANNABOT: Or, discipline. The brain is a machine of habit. The heart is a hell.
HUMAN MACHINE: “The secret of smooth living is a calm cheerfulness which will leave me always in full possession of my reasoning faculty.”
ANNABOT: But I am not cheerful.
HUMAN MACHINE: I ought to reflect, again and again, and yet again, that all others deserve from me as much sympathy as I give to myself. I place my hand over your heart.
ANNABOT: I cannot feel your hand.
HUMAN MACHINE: I cannot feel your heart.
This is the language of simple, obvious things
The conclusion and the part before
Anna held her hand out to feel the cold
It was cold