On the instant all her fine, civilized poise had deserted her.

From the sweetness and delicacy of the reception atmosphere--the polite cooings, posturings, and mouthings so charming to contemplate, so alluring in her--she had dropped on the instant to that native animal condition that shows itself in fear.

Her eyes had a look of hunted horror, her lips and cheeks were pale and drawn.

She retreated in a staggering, ungraceful way; she writhed and squirmed, screaming in the strong clutch of the irate and vigorous Aileen.
Cowperwood entered the hall below just before the screams began.

He had followed the Sohlbergs almost immediately from his office, and, chancing to glance in the reception-room, he had observed Sohlberg smiling, radiant, an intangible air of self-ingratiating, social, and artistic sycophancy about him, his long black frock-coat buttoned smoothly around his body, his silk hat still in his hands.
"Awe, how do you do, Meezter Cowperwood," he was beginning to say, his curly head shaking in a friendly manner, "I'm soa glad to see you again" when--but who can imitate a scream of terror?
We have no words, no symbols even, for those essential sounds of fright and agony.