Quicksand
eyes that he might be discouraged from longer tarrying, she had gone off into sleep.
Waking later to the sound of joyous religious abandon floating in through the opened windows, she had asked a little diffidently that she be allowed to read. Miss Hartley‘s sketchy brows contracted into a dubious frown. After a judicious pause she had answered: “No, I don‘t think so.” Then, seeing the rebellious tears which had sprung into her patient‘s eyes, she added kindly: “But I‘ll read to you a little if you like.”
That, Helga replied, would be nice. In the next room on a high-up shelf was a book. She‘d forgotten the name, but its author was Anatole France. There was a story, “The Procurator of Judea.” Would Miss Hartley read that? “Thanks. Thanks awfully.”
“‘Lælius Lamia, born in Italy of illustrious parents,’” began the nurse in her slightly harsh voice.
Helga drank it in.
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