a mounting to the soul

p. 158 It was now about eleven. The streets were fairly dark, and people roamed about in all directions, quiet pairs and noisy groups mixed with one another. The great hour had commenced, the pairing time when the mystic traffic is in full swing - and the hour of merry adventures is at hand. Rustling petticoats, one or two still short, sensual laughter, heaving bosoms, passionate, panting breaths, and far down near the Grand Hotel a voice calling “Emma!” The whole street was a swamp, from which hot vapours exuded.