Quicksand
ulousness of herself in such surroundings, was too much for Helga Crane‘s frayed nerves. She sat down on the floor, a dripping heap, and laughed and laughed and laughed.
It was into a shocked silence that she laughed. For at the first hysterical peal the words of the song had died in the singers‘ throats, and the wheezy organ had lapsed into stillness. But in a moment there were hushed solicitous voices; she was assisted to her feet and led haltingly to a chair near the low platform at the far end of the room. On one side of her a tall angular black woman under a queer hat sat down, on the other a fattish yellow man with huge outstanding ears and long, nervous hands.
The singing began again, this time a low wailing thing:
Oh, the bitter shame and sorrow
That a time could ever be,
When I let the Savior‘s pity
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