"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 drink and smoke cigars and carouse.
All nice young men, he decided, should be turned into ugly old men as soon as possible. That'd fix them!
He noticed the little old lady smiling at him, and tried to change his thoughts rapidly. But the little old lady said nothing at all.
"At any rate," Barbara said, "I'm afraid that we just can't—"
Dr. Harman cleared his throat imperiously. It was a most impressive noise, and everyone turned to look at him. His face was a little gray, but he looked, otherwise, like a rather pudgy, blond, crew-cut Roman emperor.
"Just a moment," he said with dignity, "I think you're doing the United States of America a grave injustice, Miss Wilson—and that you're doing an injustice to Miss Thompson, too."
"What do you mean?" she said.
"I think it would be nice for her to get away from me—I mean from here," the psychiatrist said. "Where did you say you were taking her?" he asked Malone.