Quicksand
across the pavement from the shop to the waiting motor. This feeling was intensified by the many pedestrians who stopped to stare at the queer dark creature, strange to their city. Her cheeks reddened, but both Herr and Fru Dahl seemed oblivious of the stares or the audible whispers in which Helga made out the one frequently recurring word "sorte," which she recognized as the Danish word for "black."
Her Aunt Katrina merely remarked: “A high color becomes you, Helga. Perhaps tonight a little rouge—” To which her husband nodded in agreement and stroked his mustache meditatively. Helga Crane said nothing.
They were pleased with the success she was at the tea, or rather the coffee—for no tea was served—and later at dinner. Helga herself felt like nothing so much as some new and strange species of pet dog being proudly exhibited. Everyone was very polite and very
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