Quicksand
of the work. And I‘m not, not if it means suppression of individuality and beauty.”
“And does it?”
“Well, it seems to work out that way.”
“How old are you, Miss Crane?”
She resented this, but she told him, speaking with what curtness she could command only the bare figure: “Twenty-three.”
“Twenty-three. I see. Some day you‘ll learn that lies, injustice, and hypocrisy are a part of every ordinary community. Most people achieve a sort of protective immunity, a kind of callousness, toward them. If they didn‘t, they couldn‘t endure. I think there‘s less of these evils here than in most places, but because we‘re trying to do such a big thing, to aim so high, the ugly things show more, they irk some of us more. Service is like clean white linen, even the tiniest speck shows.” He went on, explaining, amplifying, pleading.
Helga Crane was silent, feeling a mystifying yearning which sang and throbbed in
44
