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. She had become unashamed of her nudity, altogether unfocused on her appearance. “No, John, you won’t understand. She could now see to read; so she stirred the manuscript about until she came upon the first page. Marvel was almost dislodged from his seat on the coffin by a dead dog, which was hurled against him, and struck him in the face. For now, I fear there is something worse, something more present.
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