As concertmaster, it was Lucy’s duty to seat the orchestra as well as tune them. 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. As soon as he had read it, he let it fall from his grasp. “Quite on my own,” she said. The ward in which he was confined, was about six yards in length, and three in width, and in height, might be about twelve feet.
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