You know—I worship you. What do you think, Annabel?” “I don’t think they would,” she admitted. With this person—who was no other than Mr. I'll think no more about her. "Will that do?" he added, returning it. 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. ” “You know, Mr. " So saying, he unlocked the door and strode out of the room.
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