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. You can if you will. I get along with my Mom sometimes, Lucy. Not to go to her is wickeder than if I had run away with my friend's wife. Hitherto you’ve seen only my easy, kindly side. Now, you and I can gossip at a gate, and Honi soit qui mal y pense. She washed her face with unwonted elaboration before she went to bed.
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