Ann Veronica had a number of fragmentary impressions of Alice strangely transfigured in bridal raiment. She had even confided to him how lonely it was in the island. “But my dear Ann Veronica, you will be getting into debt!” Ann Veronica at once, and with a feeling of immense relief, took refuge in her dignity. 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. Yes, yes, there is no doubt about it.
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