Quicksand
the swirling crowds seemed manifestations of purposed malevolence. And for that first short minute she was awed and frightened and inclined to turn back to that other city, which, though not kind, was yet not strange. This New York seemed somehow more appalling, more scornful, in some inexplicable way even more terrible and uncaring than Chicago. Threatening almost. Ugly. Yes, perhaps she‘d better turn back.
The feeling passed, escaped in the surprise of what Mrs. Hayes-Rore was saying. Her oratorical voice boomed above the city‘s roar. “I suppose I ought really to have phoned Anne from the station. About you, I mean. Well, it doesn‘t matter. She‘s got plenty of room. Lives alone in a big house, which is something Negroes in New York don‘t do. They fill ‘em up with lodgers usually. But Anne‘s funny. Nice, though. You‘ll like her, and it will be good for you to know her if you‘re going to stay in New York. She‘s a
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