“It is the first moment we have let him out of our sight,” Brendon exclaimed, as he hastened across the street. His treatment of his wife is most unsatisfactory. If Martha knew all, she would certainly die of shock. ‘And so you sneak back,’ she threw at him, ‘like the jackal that you are. And it is not at all his affair. 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. “I can see you and Anna groaning and nodding your grave heads together.
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