It might as well be Melusine herself. She was a very elegant young woman, slightly taller perhaps than her sister, and with an air of reserved strength underneath her quiet face and manner which Annabel may have lacked. “You don’t know him, Anna,” she said with a little shudder, “or you would not talk like that. Her knees were trembling, her whole frame was shaken with sobs. “Sir John is not at all that sort. . 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 thought I explained—” “Come home!” Ann Veronica shrugged her shoulders. ‘Sir?’ enquired the lad. They have retired. Wood.
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