So far as the eye could reach, the white level road, with its fringe of elm-trees, was empty. She brought her hands up to her head and ripped out two long chunks of her hair, pulling out shreds of scalp. It’s your first evening, and early impressions do count for so much. 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. “I must live, you know.
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