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 hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. “I have been amusing myself up to now by trying to earn my living,” she replied. . They are the only happy women in the Orient. Their eyes met, and his expressed perplexity and curiosity.
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