When they all took their candles and mounted the stairs, where the lamps were burning subduedly, Hermione captured Ursula and brought her into her own bedroom, to talk to her.

A sort of constraint came over Ursula in the big, strange bedroom.

Hermione seemed to be bearing down on her, awful and inchoate, making some appeal.

They were looking at some Indian silk shirts, gorgeous and sensual in themselves, their shape, their almost corrupt gorgeousness.

And Hermione came near, and her bosom writhed, and Ursula was for a moment blank with panic.