Quicksand
ing mouth was somehow sorrowful. Her pitch-black eyes, a little aslant, were veiled by long, drooping lashes and surmounted by broad brows, which seemed like black smears. The short dark hair was brushed severely back from the wide forehead. The extreme décolleté of her simple apricot dress showed a skin of unusual color, a delicate, creamy hue, with golden tones. “Almost like an alabaster,” thought Helga.
Bang! Again the music died. The moving mass broke, separated. The others returned. Anne had rage in her eyes. Her voice trembled as she took Helga aside to whisper: “There‘s your Dr. Anderson over there, with Audrey Denney.”
“Yes, I saw him. She‘s lovely. Who is she?”
“She‘s Audrey Denney, as I said, and she lives downtown. West Twenty-second Street. Hasn‘t much use for Harlem any more. It‘s a wonder she hasn‘t some white man hanging about. The disgusting creature! I wonder
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