Quicksand
Twelve
Helga Crane felt no regret as the cliff-like towers faded. The sight thrilled her as beauty, grandeur, of any kind always did, but that was all.
The liner drew out from churning slate-colored waters of the river into the open sea. The small seething ripples on the water‘s surface became little waves. It was evening. In the western sky was a pink and mauve light, which faded gradually into a soft gray-blue obscurity. Leaning against the railing, Helga stared into the approaching night, glad to be at last alone, free of that great superfluity of human beings, yellow, brown, and black, which, as the torrid summer burnt to its close, had so oppressed her. No, she hadn‘t belonged there. Of her attempt to emerge from that inherent aloneness which was part of her very being,
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