At the bottom of the hill the triple time was almost restful, lulling many a piccaninny to sleep. Inside the Great House it drowned thought, obscured decency, left manners exposed, without reason, without objective. The ladies whirled, skirts held high in their right hands, left arms tight on their partners' waists, bodices sagging as shoulders and breasts glistened with perspiration, hair rapidly uncoiling itself in the frenzy of the gyrations. Men were no less abandoned, white-gloved fingers biting into taffeta waists, or naked arms, seeking every opportunity to let thigh brush thigh in the frenzy of the dance, smiling their sexual adoration into the equally smiling faces only inches away from their own. The entire room became a vast emotional storm; it communicated itself even to those not dancing, seated in the chairs which had been pushed against the walls this night, or lounging beside them, the women with heads close together, fans fluttering, destroying reputations with effortless envy, the men, also mouth to ear, shrouded in tobacco smoke, building hopes and creating fantasies, exchanging experiences and perpetuating scandals.
