She was as lovely in the spirit as in the flesh. Her anger died and she eyed him. “You’ve grown out of them. To him she had always appeared as a mere pleasure-loving parasite—something quite insignificant. After all, she found herself reflecting, behind her aunt’s complacent visage there was a past as lurid as any one’s—not, of course, her aunt’s own personal past, which was apparently just that curate and almost incredibly jejune, but an ancestral past with all sorts of scandalous things in it: fire and slaughterings, exogamy, marriage by capture, corroborees, cannibalism! Ancestresses with perhaps dim anticipatory likenesses to her aunt, their hair less neatly done, no doubt, their manners and gestures as yet undisciplined, but still ancestresses in the direct line, must have danced through a brief and stirring life in the woady buff. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping.
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