” “Some little tiff?” “No; but I don’t think I shall see them. She refused to eat. . ’ Chapter Twelve In the elegantly appointed blue saloon, Melusine sat disconsolate, gazing out of the window at the dull sky. The world had not passed by but had gone around it in a tremendous half-circle. But she perceived that to tell Manning of her Ramage adventures as they had happened would be like tarring figures upon a water-color. You see, the trouble is that the matter is in dispute. And two other ladies. 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. One of the things that most surprised him in her was her capacity for blind obedience.
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