Quicksand
to cut me. I see you were,” he began, with that half-quizzical smile which she remembered so well.
She laughed. “Oh, I didn‘t think you‘d remember me.” Then she added: “Pleasantly, I mean.”
The man laughed too. But they couldn‘t talk yet. People kept breaking in on them. At last, however, they were at the door, and then he suggested that they share a taxi “for the sake of a little breeze.” Helga assented.
Constraint fell upon them when they emerged into the hot street, made seemingly hotter by a low-hanging golden moon and the hundreds of blazing electric lights. For a moment, before hailing a taxi, they stood together looking at the slow moving mass of perspiring human beings. Neither spoke, but Helga was conscious of the man‘s steady gaze. The prominent gray eyes were fixed upon her, studying her, appraising her. Many times since turning her back on Naxos she had in fancy rehearsed this
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