Quicksand
nance, asking gently: “You don‘t like Naxos, Miss Crane?”
She evaded. “Naxos, the place? Yes, I like it. Who wouldn‘t like it? It‘s so beautiful. But I—well—I don‘t seem to fit here.” The man smiled, just a little. “The school? You don‘t like the school?”
The words burst from her. “No, I don‘t like it. I hate it!”
“Why?” The question was detached, too detached.
In the girl blazed a desire to wound. There he sat, staring dreamily out of the window, blatantly unconcerned with her or her answer. Well, she‘d tell him. She pronounced each word with deliberate slowness.
“Well, for one thing, I hate hypocrisy. I hate cruelty to students, and to teachers who can‘t fight back. I hate backbiting, and sneaking, and petty jealousy. Naxos? It‘s hardly a place at all. It‘s more like some loathsome, venomous disease. Ugh! Everybody spending
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