“The young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so. ” True summer descended like a sticky fever upon August’s arrival, bringing with it miasmas of humidity that seemed to hang from the trees like mucus. He seldom spoke, and drank with a persistence that was sinister. Like a thorough-bred racer, he would sustain twice as much fatigue as a person of heavier mould. He filled his pipe slowly. Already she missed all of her fine things, her linens and leather bound books. 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. For a stunned moment, Emile did not speak.
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