Quicksand
Go back to America, where they hated Negroes To America, where Negroes were not people. To America, where Negroes were allowed to be beggars only, of life, of happiness, of security. To America, where everything had been taken from those dark ones, liberty, respect, even the labor of their hands. To America, where if one had Negro blood, one mustn‘t expect money, education, or, sometimes, even work whereby one might earn bread. Perhaps she was wrong to bother about it now that she was so far away. Helga couldn‘t, however, help it. Never could she recall the shames and often the absolute horrors of the black man‘s existence in America without the quickening of her heart‘s beating and a sensation of disturbing nausea. It was too awful. The sense of dread of it was almost a tangible thing in her throat.
And certainly she wouldn‘t go back for any such idiotic reason as Anne‘s getting married to that offensive Robert Anderson. Anne
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