’ Gerald remained infuriatingly calm. She refused coffee, though she knew that anyhow she was doomed to a sleepless night. Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. ’ Impatience overtook Melusine’s resolve momentarily. “TROUSERS!” she whispered. She has already forgotten it. I’m a little tired. Michelle bypassed the ordering counter and surfed directly to their table. I saw someone in there whom I have always hoped that I should never meet again. 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. You fooled me this morning; but I overheard two old maids talking about you and the young man. He had not taken many steps when he perceived Quilt Arnold in the upper gallery, with a lamp in his hand. He was roused from the stupor of despair into which he had sunk by the voice of Ben, who roared in his ear, "The bridge!—the bridge!" CHAPTER VII.
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