He looked at Hilary and nodded. Then he was surrounded by black-clad nuns, and Melusine felt an unknown hand grab away her own sword. His face turned a dark crimson. Her gown was minimalist compared to those concoctions of boning and lace of long ago, she reflected, but that did not stop it from getting caught on 134 brambles and twigs. 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. At last she glanced at a little clock in the corner of the room, and sprang to her feet. “The Chens must already be here. ’ For a moment Melusine stared at him as she took in the full horror of his scheme. “I am a fool,” he said. Ann Veronica loved beautiful things, and the beauty of undraped loveliness not least among them; but these were pictures that did but insist coarsely upon the roundness of women’s bodies. "You are my prisoner, Jack.
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