Anyhow, he did not sentimentalize her. Above her head was an aura of white fire. It could not be a legal marriage. “Have you ever seen Annabel with him?” she asked. She seemed to grow more beautiful to him and not the opposite. Not a star could be discerned, but, in their stead, streaks of lurid radiance, whence proceeding it was impossible to determine, shot ever and anon athwart the dusky vault, and added to the ominous and threatening appearance of the night. “There’s morbid beauty,” said Ann Veronica. "Your answer!" cried Sheppard. 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. “Promise. But if his frame was immature, his looks were not so.
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