Quicksand
responded in a strange voice, a strange manner, coldly formal, levelly courteous. Then suddenly contrite, she added: “Honestly, I don‘t. I can‘t tell a thing about him,” and fell into a little silence. “Not a thing,” she repeated. But the phrase, though audible, was addressed to no one. To herself.
She looked out into the amazing orderliness of the street. Instinctively she wanted to combat this searching into the one thing which, here, surrounded by all other things which for so long she had so positively wanted, made her a little afraid. Started vague premonitions.
Fru Dahl regarded her intently. It would be, she remarked with a return of her outward casualness, by far the best of all possibilities. Particularly desirable. She touched Helga‘s hand with her fingers in a little affectionate gesture. Very lightly.
Helga Crane didn‘t immediately reply. There was, she knew, so much reason—from one viewpoint—in her aunt‘s statement. She
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