"She's a sick woman," Barbara said. "But you have to understand—"
"Vital necessity," Boyd put in. "Absolutely vital."
"Nevertheless—" Barbara said. "She can read minds," Dr. Harman whispered in an awed tone. "She knows. Everything. She knows."
"It's out of the question," Barbara said. "Whether you like it or not, Miss Thompson is not going to leave this hospital. Why, what could she do outside these walls? She hasn't left in over forty years! And furthermore, Mr. Malone—"
"Kenneth," Malone put in, as the door opened again. "I mean Ken."
The little old lady put her haloed head into the room. "Now, now,
Barbara," she said. "Don't you go spoiling things. Just let these nice
men take me away and everything will be fine, believe me. Besides,
I've been outside more often then you imagine."
"Outside?" Barbara said.
"Of course," the little old lady said. "In other people's minds. Even yours. I remember that nice young man—what was his name?—"
"Never mind his name," Barbara said, flushing furiously.
Malone felt instantly jealous of every nice young man he had ever even heard of. He wasn't a nice young man; he was an FBI agent, and he liked to get drunk and smoke cigars and carouse with loose women. Anyway, reasonably loose women.