It was exactly as Sebastian had foreseen. ‘One of they Frenchies, that’s what I say—if it ain’t a ghost. She turned there, clasped her hands behind her back and put up her chin. Dreams of adorable infants danced through her head as she cradled blankets in her arms. “Didn’t you know he was married?” asked Miss Klegg, and was struck by a thought that made her glance quickly at her companion. She got pregnant. Tickle the ears of their reverences with any idle nonsense you please: but tell them nothing you care to have repeated. It generalized everything she put to it. 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. My poor brain is so mixed, dear, I hardly know what I am saying.
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