One night, she drew close to him in bed, trying to warm herself by embracing his back. “We are only in the dawn of the Age of Friendship,” he said, “when interest, I suppose, will take the place of passions. Love was joy, and joyous she was when alone. What she had termed illuminative now appeared to be only another phase of the mystery which enveloped the child. 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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