One day she had thrown all the gifts into the lagoon, and visited the secret nook no more. 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 a nut-brown skin, a swarthy upper lip, a merry black eye, a prominent bust, and a tun-like circumference of waist. “Ruin me? For what? Posterity? How could you ruin me, Lucy? What on earth are you talking about?” He got up and began to pace the room. “I think they do. His eyebrows arched, knotting in the middle. For a moment he did not recognize Annabel. She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come. Sorry I’m a bit late the first evening. He was carelessly dressed, and there were marks of unrest upon his features.
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