But as she
whirled and whirled, new moods and figures seemed to force themselves
upon her. She lifted her hands and swayed them about above her head
gracefully. She was posturing she knew, but why she had no idea.
It all came upon her as suddenly and as uncontrollably as a blush.
She was whirling around the room, now slow, now fast, but always
with her arms held out lissom, like a dancing-girl's. Sometimes
her body bent this way, and sometimes that, her hands keeping time
to her movements meanwhile in long graceful curves, but all as if
compelled by some extrinsic necessity.
It was an instinct within her over which she had no control. Surely,
surely, she must be possessed. A spirit that was not her seemed to
be catching her round the waist, and twisting her about, and making
her spin headlong over the floor through this wild fierce dance.
It was terrible, terrible. Yet she could not prevent it. A force
not her own seemed to sustain and impel her.
And all the time, as she whirled, she was conscious also of some
strange dim need. A sense of discomfort oppressed her arms. She
hadn't everything she required for this solitary orgy. Something
more was lacking her. Something essential, vital.
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