Quicksand
his time in a malicious hunting for the weaknesses of others, spying, grudging, scratching."
“I see. And you don‘t think it might help to cure us, to have someone who doesn‘t approve of these things stay with us? Even just one person, Miss Crane?”
She wondered if this last was irony. She suspected it was humor and so ignored the half-pleading note in his voice.
“No, I don‘t! It doesn‘t do the disease any good. Only irritates it. And it makes me unhappy, dissatisfied. It isn't pleasant to be always made to appear in the wrong, even when I know I'm right.”
His gaze was on her now, searching. “Queer,” she thought, “how some brown people have gray eyes. Gives them a strange, unexpected appearance. A little frightening.”
The man said, kindly: “Ah, you‘re unhappy. And for the reasons you‘ve stated?”
“Yes, partly. Then, too, the people here don‘t like me. They don‘t think I‘m in the spirit
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