Shame and electricity coursed through her veins, flowing directly from him in a flash flood. 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. “David,” she said, “you are not a coward, are you?” “I do not know,” he muttered. She flew to the door, but returned the next minute, looking deeply disappointed, and bringing the intelligence that it was "only Mrs.
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