"The poor young man!" she said. “Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. 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. The trader you spoke about: he disliked your father, didn't he? Well, he probably played your father a horrible practical joke. Only it was with a further and most unbelieving shrug of the shoulders that he resumed his seat. How Jack Sheppard attended his Mother's Funeral 435 XXVII.
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