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. He paid the cab, and turned to follow her. It would be easy enough for me to write an eloquent letter about something else. You were afraid of me, afraid that I should have been shocked, afraid of the scandal. ‘No more, Saling, no more,’ said Mrs Sindlesham in accents of exhaustion.
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