" "Perhaps I'm too tired to plan for to-morrow. You might tell the truth to some men, but never to him. ” She shrugged her shoulders and led him towards a small recess. You are afraid—that here in London—I shall not be a success. I have suspected him of possessing a skeleton key to my apartments. 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 won’t go home,” she said; “I won’t!” and she evaded the clutch of the fatherly policeman and tried to thrust herself past him in the direction of that big portal. My letters are returned unopened, her maid will not even allow me across the doorstep.
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