Right and left, the fury of the slavering fangs shook her loose droop of gown; and a dull, prolonged growl, like the clamour of a far body of insurrectionary marching men, told of the rage.
Fleetwood hovered helpless as a leaf on a bough.
'Back--', I pray,' she said to him, and motioned it, her arms at high stretch.
He held no weapon.

The sweat of his forehead half blinded him.

And she waved him behind her, beckoned to the crowd to keep wide way, used her lifted hands as flappers; she had all her wits.

There was not a wrinkle of a grimace.

Nothing but her locked lips betrayed her vision of imminent doom.