She showered after she heard the door shut and the cars pull out of the driveway. “Your best route will be via Boulogne and Folkestone at nine o’clock from the Gare du Nord. I mean—I mean to do what I can. She could hardly speak to me; she insisted relentlessly upon a separation. ‘I will do so. 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.
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