She was a merry creature, it is true, and quite beautiful. And then, for the first time, Wood noticed a small stream of blood coursing slowly down her cheek. ‘Oh, peste. Play foul, and win. “NO!” she said, at last, with something in her voice that reminded Ann Veronica of a sprung tennis-racket. 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. . Aliva's husband, who passed by the name of Darrell, confronted them sword in hand.
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