Ruth wore a printed cotton kimono. 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. But seriously, things are not so bad as you think. She looked at the white ankle socks on her feet and was reminded simultaneously of her pajama outfit and the suitcase that still lay underneath the bed. She turned and looked at the red LED of the alarm clock that read 3:55.
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