“You are very stupid, Anna,” she said. “Thanks to you. Even in her hatred, she began to realize that Sebastian’s intelligence was much greater than Gianfrancesco’s. And think things out. His eyes on Melusine, he uncocked the pistol, and then reached out to the portrait, grasping it by one edge. But really it is much more than that. Who was he to tread on her dreams? She had heroworshipped an unscrupulous adventurer, who had not hesitated to impose on her youth and her ignorance. 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. How Jonathan Wild's House was burnt down 458 XXXI.
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