The terror faded from her eyes. Kimble had bedded the animal down at the local inn. She was sorry for his liking her too much for his own good, but her need was too desperate to cavil at turning it to useful account. Brown broke the silence. “Before this there was a sort of restraint—a make-believe. Then a surge of rage welled up. 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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