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. No matter what they do, always someone to bolster them up, to lend them money, and to coddle them. The unfortunate woman was stretched upon the floor, with a bloody knife in her hand. No, this was imbecile. She had told Emile. CHAPTER XII. She was looking about her, and her face was dark with anger.
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