It is I who am persecuted by the man who calls himself your husband. What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours. There’s no sense in morality, I suppose, unless you are fundamentally immoral. I asked you to go. She came quickly into the little parlour, which now seemed inordinately crowded, and coming up to Melusine, seized her hands in a warm clasp. We have him as safe as a linnet in a cage; and could wring his neck round as easily. 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. Hang the wench! Roding was right. “Come on in, Michelle.
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