He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. 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. Nevertheless, she was no fool, and she knew that they could easily break loose and cause her to fall. “I have brought you very nearly to my door. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. ” He nodded twice, with his eyes on the fire, as though that was a formal statement. “Well,” she said. So that way is closed. I wonder what men would say if we threw the mask aside—if we really told them what WE thought of them, really showed them what WE were. " "They shall have it, then," replied his better half, rising. For her mother to betray her seemed inevitable, but the betrayal seemed worse than her fate.
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