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And Ritter’s, too, was very amusing and foreign and discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small tables, with red electric light shades and flowers. . 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. She throws a sort of spell over us all. “To me it seems serious enough. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. You are my wife, and I am determined to claim you. Such a time that it takes for them to go. Three times he uttered a phrase: "A djinn in a blue-serge coat!" And each time he would follow it with a chuckle—the chuckle of a soul in damnation. Unconscious that his movements were watched, Shotbolt, meanwhile, hastened towards Wych Street. Pottiswick had mentioned muttering. G.
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