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. And she had been doubting since that walk in the Zoological Gardens whether, indeed, he did simply care for her. There was no past, no future, only this exhilarating present. She looked down tassels of his shiny shoes with a scowl. Wood's, the carpenter in Wych Street. At the door through which she had entered the room stood the so-called Monsieur Valade. “Want to see the upstairs?” “Sure. "He ought to do, seeing that he served his apprenticeship in it to Mr.
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