Quicksand
said, simply, that she wanted work, work of any kind. A competent young woman, whose eyes stared frog-like from great tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses, regarded her with an appraising look and asked for her history, past and present, not forgetting the “references.” Helga told her that she was a graduate of Devon, had taught in Naxos. But even before she arrived at the explanation of the lack of references, the other's interest in her had faded.
“I'm sorry, but we have nothing that you would be interested in,” she said and motioned to the next seeker, who immediately came forward, proffering several much worn papers.
“References,” thought Helga, resentfully, bitterly, as she went out the door into the crowded garish street in search of another agency, where her visit was equally vain.
Days of this sort of thing. Weeks of it. And of the futile scanning and answering of newspaper advertisements. She traversed acres
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