Jackson noticed a fine service of old blue china in an open japan closet, Mr. Lucy felt the hairs on her neck rise. They turned off at Glen Grove, a sleepy town of less than two hundred. 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. I’m making a mess of my life— unless you come in and take it. Stanley went on, “but there are things— there are stories about Ramage. Indeed, she did not want to think of him as loving her.
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