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“Come in here a moment, will you, Blanche,” he said. “May I ask whether you are staying with friends in town?” he inquired deferentially. “You’ve got my view,” he said, after a pensive second. 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. Melusine cast one swift glance at it, and her eyes, flashing magnificently, came back to his face. ‘But he must have—’ ‘Nicholas Charvill never did anything he must do,’ Mrs Sindlesham said evenly. That poor child, trying to escape, and not knowing how. Hill sat up on the pavement and mopped the blood from his cheek.
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