Quicksand
before turning to greet Fru Fischer she said quietly, meaningly: “Or else stop wasting your time, Helga.”
Helga Crane said: “Ah, Fru Fischer. It‘s good to see you.” She meant it. Her whole body was tense with suppressed indignation. Burning inside like the confined fire of a hot furnace. She was so harassed that she smiled in self-protection. And suddenly she was oddly cold. An intimation of things distant, but none the less disturbing, oppressed her with a faintly sick feeling. Like a heavy weight, a stone weight, just where, she knew, was her stomach.
Fru Fischer was late. As usual. She apologized profusely. Also as usual. And, yes, she would have some coffee. And some smørrebrød. Though she must say that the coffee here at the Vivili was atrocious. Simply atrocious. “I don‘t see how you stand it.” And the place was getting so common, always so many Bolsheviks and Japs and things. And she didn‘t—“begging your pardon, Helga”—like that hideous Amer-
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