But what on earth
it could be she knew not; she knew not.
By-and-by she paused, and, as she glanced right and left, the sense
of discomfort grew clearer and more vivid. It was her hands that
were wrong. Her hands were empty. She must have something to fill
them. Something alive, lithe, curling, sinuous. These wavings
and swayings, to this side and to that, seemed so meaningless and
void--without some life to guide them. There was nothing for her
to hold; nothing to tame and subdue; nothing to cling and writhe
and give point to her movements. Oh! heavens, how horrible!
She drew herself up suddenly, and by dint of a fierce brief effort
of will repressed for awhile the mad dance that overmastered her.
The spirit within her, if spirit it were, kept quiet for a moment,
awed and subdued by her proud determination. Then it began once
more and led her resistlessly forward. She moved over to the chest
of drawers still rhythmically and with set steps, but to the phantom
strain of some unheard low music. The music was running vaguely
through her head all the time--wild Aeolian music--it sounded like
a rude tune on a harp or zither. And surely the cymbals clashed now
and again overhead; and the timbrel rang clear; and the castanets
tinkled, keeping time with the measure.
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