Annabel, I was lying. “I’m only arguing against your position of what a woman should be, and trying to get it clear in my own mind. “You have them both,” Anna answered. 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. My mother died the day I was born; that’s what they tell me. The Oriental has no equivalent. We were worried. " "Your secret?" demanded Trenchard, impatiently.
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