Quicksand
“Don’t,” was her aunts reply, “be a fool too, Helga. We don’t think of those things here. Not in connection with individuals, at least.” And almost immediately she inquired: “Did you give Herr Olsen my message about dinner tonight?”
“Yes, Aunt.” Helga was cross, and trying not to show it.
“He’s coming?”
“Yes, Aunt,” with precise politeness.
“What about him?“
”I don’t know. What about him?“
”He likes you?“
”I don’t know. How can I tell that?”
Helga asked with irritating reserve, her concentrated attention on the selection of a sandwich. She had a feeling of nakedness. Outrage.
Now Fru Dahl was annoyed and showed it. “What nonsense! Of course you know. Any girl does,” and her satin-covered foot tapped, a little impatiently, the old tiled floor.
“Really, I don’t know, Aunt,“ Helga
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