Quicksand
agreeable round features, into a dead straight, greasy, ugly mass.
Looking up from her watch, Margaret said: “Well, I‘ve really got to run, or I‘ll be late myself. And since I‘m staying—Better think it over, Helga. There‘s no place like Naxos, you know. Pretty good salaries, decent rooms, plenty of men, and all that. Ta-ta.” The door slid to behind her.
But in another moment it opened. She was back. “I do wish you‘d stay. It‘s nice having you here, Helga. We all think so. Even the dead ones. We need a few decorations to brighten our sad lives.” And again she was gone.
Helga was unmoved. She was no longer concerned with what anyone in Naxos might think of her, for she was now in love with the piquancy of leaving. Automatically her fingers adjusted the Chinese-looking pillows on the low couch that served for her bed. Her mind was busy with plans for departure. Packing, money, trains, and could she get a berth?
33
