E. Edward Bribble stood between them with an open book. It is not for myself I fear. ‘You were his daughter. Their future would be glorious; he saw it in their eyes; he saw it in the beauty of their young heads. Partly, from your confessor; partly, from other sources. '—'What is it, Mint?' asked all three. More than ever a sense of confusion was upon Ennison. 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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