Time after time he sent Spurlock into this corner or that; but always the boy regained his feet before the murderous boot could reach the mark. He saw the girl, and sprang up in bed. She had come to despise those who were fertile out of pure jealousy, but could not admit it to herself. 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. “Who are you?” She asked innocently.
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