His hair is oddly streaked with gray —I might say a dishonourable gray. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. Maybe others that I do not know about. A shout was heard at a little distance, and, the next moment, a person rushed with breathless haste to the stair-head. 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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