... There is a hush. And Loyden’s voice that was shrill moves down to a low monotone swaying within the heavy fumes and shadows of the room like a bird planing....
Loyden: Death creeps up. Death creeps down. The eyes are dead already. Who of the Western World can see? The feet and the legs are dead already. Where is there Dance, where is there Music among us? Among the Black men, among the Yellow men, among the Red men, yes. They still have living limbs. They still have living eyes. We stiffen with Death. Death creeps up, Death creeps down ... into the heart of the dying Western World.
... There was a pause. The eyes of all gazed into the shadow where a long thin head, wild-haired, wild-throated, cast out words upon them. The eyes of all turned: Fanny was out of her chair. She moved to the bottle-littered table under the gas. The yellow light lay heavy on her hair, made her face glow pallid about her eyes that were dark within themselves.
“I will dance for you,” she said.
She lifted her hands. They were little and very white upon her emaciate arms.
“Look up!”
But her eyes did not look up. They were dark and lost within themselves.
“I will dance for you. Look up!” So she stood, with her hands high, moveless.
The Night rolled slowly: lifting the room with a faint jerking onward. They felt the rhythm of the moving room, sailing upon the Night. Their heads swayed and their eyes, upturned, stirred faintly, carried by the slow-voyaging room.