Manning loved her presented itself to her bloodlessly, stilled from any imaginative quiver or thrill of passion or disgust. It’s odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels. 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. She packed her backpack with a change of clothes, some rags, and her old length of piano wire.
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