Quicksand
bearable weight. As spring came on with many gracious tokens of following summer, she found her thoughts straying with increasing frequency to Anne‘s letter and to Harlem, its dirty streets, swollen now, in the warmer weather, with dark, gay humanity.
Until recently she had had no faintest wish ever to see America again. Now she began to welcome the thought of a return. Only a visit, of course. Just to see, to prove to herself that there was nothing there for her. To demonstrate the absurdity of even thinking that there could be. And to relieve the slight tension here. Maybe when she came back—
Her definite decision to go was arrived at with almost bewildering suddenness. It was after a concert at which Dvorák‘s “New World Symphony” had been wonderfully rendered. Those wailing undertones of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” were too poignantly familiar. They struck into her longing heart and cut away her weakening defenses. She knew at least
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