She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. "There, he's as safe as Jack Sheppard in the Condemned Hould," laughed the man. ’ ‘That we shall see. Things you would laugh at. 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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