And it dies out and disappears in the darkness.

Pelagaya is quickly going somewhere along a straight road.
There Sophya Pavlovna Medinskaya is standing, her hands hanging impotently, just as she stood in her drawing-room when he saw her last.
Her eyes were large, but some great fright gleams in them.

Sasha, too, is here.

Indifferent, paying no attention to the jostling, she is stoutly going straight into the very dregs of life, singing her songs at the top of her voice, her dark eyes fixed in the distance before her.
Foma hears tumult, howls, laughter, drunken shouts, irritable disputes about copecks--songs and sobs hover over this enormous restless heap of living human bodies crowded into a pit.

They jump, fall, crawl, crush one another, leap on one another's shoulders, grope everywhere like blind people, stumbling everywhere over others like themselves, struggle, and, falling, disappear from sight.