Quicksand
dressed Anne‘s bed in fresh-smelling sheets of cool linen, and laid out her best pale-yellow pajamas of crêpe de Chine. Finally she set out two tall green glasses and made a great pitcher of lemonade, leaving only the ginger-ale and claret to be added on Anne‘s arrival. She was a little conscience-stricken, so she wanted to be particularly nice to Anne, who had been so kind to her when first she came to New York, a forlorn friendless creature. Yes, she was grateful to Anne; but, just the same, she meant to go. At once.
Her preparations over, she went back to the carved chair from which the thought of Anne‘s home-coming had drawn her. Characteristically she writhed at the idea of telling Anne of her impending departure and shirked the problem of evolving a plausible and inoffensive excuse for its suddenness. “That,” she decided lazily, “will have to look out for itself; I can‘t be bothered just now. It‘s too hot.”
She began to make plans and to dream
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