Quicksand
well, frankly, it isn‘t convenient. I‘m sure an intelligent girl like yourself can understand that.”
“Of course,” Helga agreed, coldly, freezingly, but her lips quivered. She wanted to get away as quickly as possible. She reached the door. There was a second of complete silence, then Mrs. Nilssen‘s voice, a little agitated: “And please remember that my husband is not your uncle. No indeed! Why, that, that would make me your aunt! He‘s not―”
But at last the knob had turned in Helga‘s fumbling hand. She gave a little unpremeditated laugh and slipped out. When she was in the street, she ran. Her only impulse was to get as far away from her uncle‘s house, and this woman, his wife, who so plainly wished to dissociate herself from the outrage of her very existence. She was torn with mad fright, an emotion against which she knew but two weapons: to kick and scream, or to flee.
The day had lengthened. It was evening
62
