Quicksand
tendance upon her, he gave no sign of the more personal kind of concern which—encouraged by Aunt Katrina‘s mild insinuations and Uncle Poul‘s subtle questionings—she had tried to secure. Was it, she wondered, race that kept him silent, held him back. Helga Crane frowned on this thought, putting it furiously from her, because it disturbed her sense of security and permanence in her new life, pricked her self-assurance.
Nevertheless she was startled when on a pleasant afternoon while drinking coffee in the Hotel Vivili, Aunt Katrina mentioned, almost casually, the desirability of Helga‘s making a good marriage.
“Marriage, Aunt dear!”
“Marriage,” firmly repeated her aunt, helping herself to another anchovy and olive sandwich. “You are,” she pointed out, “twenty-five.”
“Oh, Aunt, I couldn‘t! I mean, there‘s nobody here for me to marry.” In spite of her-
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