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. ” “We should go back. "The Wastrel seemed to take it all right. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. Oh, what have you been about now?’ ‘There is no need to be concerned. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley.
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