She answered in whispers, for there was the white arm of a woman in the next box peeping beyond the partition within a yard of him. I asked him why, and he hadn’t a reason. “I shall be very glad to have you for a friend,” he said, “loving friend. As I shall take and hold. 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. “Sold again,” she remarked. Such a beautiful boy he is, but his intelligence is marginal. She wanted to be on with the show. When I think of those ateliers of ours, the art jargon, the decadents with their flamboyant talk I long for a twoedged sword and a minute of Divinity.
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