Quicksand
voice, another look stealing over his face, awfully good to see her. She was looking tremendously well. He hoped he would have the opportunity of seeing her again.
But of course. He must come to see her. Any time, she was always in, or would be for him. And how did he like New York, Harlem?
He didn‘t, it seemed, like it. It was nice to visit, but not to live in. Oh, there were so many things he didn‘t like about it, the rush, the lack of home life, the crowds, the noisy meaninglessness of it all.
On Helga‘s face there had come that pityingly sneering look peculiar to imported New Yorkers when the city of their adoption is attacked by alien Americans. With polite contempt she inquired: “And is that all you don‘t like?”
At her tone the man‘s bronze face went purple. He answered coldly, slowly, with a faint gesture in the direction of Helen Tavenor, who stood conversing gayly with one of her white
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