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. But it was not adieu, so she promised her old nurse. Girls erupted in waves of whispering as soon as she passed them by. ‘Oh, we was always in there, miss,’ admitted Joan, moving closer. “I remember,” she said, “that the first night I saw you, you spoke of my sister as your friend. He was, in fact, quite eager to go on living.
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