She had found a couple of articles about him over the years, blurbs about the opening of a theater that mentioned him. When she tried to speak she found it difficult. 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. She backed away from him. She took up a book and threw it down again. I am no use for a clerk, because I do not understand shorthand. "Give me your hand, Poll, to help me through," cried Jack, as he accomplished the operation.
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