"The door!—the door!—death!" he added, as he tried the handle, "it is locked—and I am unarmed. Is all your house on the same scale of magnificence as this, Annabel?” she asked, looking round. He laughed once or twice at himself as he paced backwards and forwards. 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. Just as he had told Gerald would be the case, there was nothing of interest to hear, especially as he had met the girl in London only last night. She opened her mouth and inhaled water.
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