My name is Wild— Jonathan Wild. It was perfectly logical. That is all I ask. ‘You do not dare look in my clothes. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. When John’s parents weren’t home, they made love in his bedroom. He embraced her like her father once had. 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. It was not the arrival of the guests, but merely the maid moving about in the hall. “She has never 96 once contacted me. Wood fancied he heard the exulting laugh of Jonathan Wild. His pale and boyish waist was nearly as slim as her own. The knots and broken pale that made the garden-fence scalable, and gave access to the fields behind, were still to be traced.
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