Confetti swarmed like dark snowdrops in the hot air.

Lane actually smelled the heat of bodies--a strangely stirring and yet noxious sensation.

A rushing, murmuring, shrill sound--voices, laughter, cries, and the sliding of feet and brushing of gowns--filled the hall--ominous to Lane's over-sensitive faculties, swelling unnaturally, the expression of unrestrained physical abandon.
Lane walked along the edge of this circling, wrestling melee, down to the corner where the orchestra held forth.

They seemed actuated by the same frenzy which possessed the dancers.

The piccolo player lay on his back on top of the piano, piping his shrill notes at the ceiling.