Miss Tarrant's Temperament by May Sinclair

That evening he realized completely what Fanny had meant when she / said that Philippa was more so than ever. He observed this increase / in her quality, not only in the broad, massive impression that she / spread, but in everything about her, her gestures, her phrases, the / details of her dress. Every turn of her head and of her body / displayed a higher flamboyance, a richer audacity, a larger volume / of intention. He was almost afraid for her lest she should overdo it / by a shade, a touch, a turn. You couldn't get away from her. The / drawing-room at Amberley was filled with her, filled with white / surfaces of neck and shoulders, with eyes somber yet aflood with / light, eyes that were perpetually at work upon you and perpetually / at play, that only rested for a moment to accentuate their movement / and their play. This effect of her was as of many women, / approaching, withdrawing, and sliding again into view, till you were / aware with a sort of shock that it was one woman, Philippa Tarrant, / all the time, and that all the play and all the movement were / concentrated on one man, Laurence Furnival.

She never let him alone for a minute. He tried, to do him justice he / tried -- Straker saw him trying -- to escape. But, owing to Miss / Tarrant's multiplicity and omnipresence, he hadn't a chance. You saw / him fascinated, stupefied by the confusion and the mystery of it. / She carried him off under Mrs. Viveash's unhappy nose. Wherever she / went she called him, and he followed, flushed and shamefaced. He / showed himself now pitifully abject, and now in pitiful revolt. Once / or twice he was positively rude to her, and Miss Tarrant seemed to / enjoy that more than anything.