“Yes,” she answered, looking away. ” But she could not talk freely about love, she found, for all that manumission. His name was Sebastianus. 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 was nestled under his bedspread. She looked at it with a little shudder, but she made no motion to take it. She drank and drank until his body was a lifeless husk, as light as a mannequin, virtually hollow of all but the fluid in his bones. “She must go her own way. But I can give it its name now. Then most horribly she was clasped about the waist from behind and lifted from the ground.
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