’ A panel slid open and she stepped into the relative light of the little dressingroom, Kimble close behind her. ‘She? Sa femme? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place, that salope. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. 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.
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