“Do you think you’ll ever get married, Lucy?” Lucy shifted uncomfortably as she pulled her makeshift nightgown—an old T-shirt—over her head. \"Yes, uh, no. No one could take the place for anything but what it was, and even Gosse hesitated in the doorway. ” Sebastian slipped the piano wire around her throat, silencing her immediately. 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. Her glasses moved quickly as her glance travelled from face to face.
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