Malloy and his bedside manner: a talent to be discussed with bated breath by his grandchildren; if he ever had any grandchildren, which was doubtful.
“Who are you?” She didn’t scream nor try to run up the wall, but the nerve kept on jumping.
“I am a sort of detective,” I said, hoping to reassure her. “I’m here to take you home.”
Now I was closer to her I could see the pupils of her blue eyes were like pin-points.
“I haven’t any clothes,” she said. “They’ve taken them away.”
“I’ll find you some more. How do you feel?”
“All right.” The fair head rolled to the right and then to the left. “But I can’t remember who I am. The man with the white hair told me I’ve lost my memory. He’s nice, isn’t he?”
“So I am told,” I said carefully. “But you want to go home, don’t you? “
“I haven’t a home.” She drew one long naked arm from under the sheet and ran slender fingers through the mop of fair hair. Her hand slid down until it rested on the jumping nerve. She pressed a finger against the nerve as if to hide it. “It got lost, but the nurse said they were looking for it. Have you found it?”
“Yes; that’s why I am here.”