Quicksand
In the corridor beyond her door was a medley of noises incident to the rising and preparing for the day at the same hour of many schoolgirls—foolish giggling, indistinguishable snatches of merry conversation, distant gurgle of running water, patter of slippered feet, low-pitched singing, good-natured admonitions to hurry, slamming of doors, clatter of various unnamable articles, and—suddenly—calamitous silence.
Helga ducked her head under the covers in the vain attempt to shut out what she knew would fill the pregnant silence-the sharp sarcastic voice of the dormitory matron. It came. “Well! Even if every last one of you did come from homes where you weren‘t taught any manners, you might at least try to pretend that you‘re capable of learning some here, now that you have the opportunity. Who slammed the shower-baths door?”
Silence.
“Well, you needn‘t trouble to answer.
25
