My name is Wild— Jonathan Wild. “I’ll bring it to-morrow. I must stay a minute longer, if only to see you smile. That day Gerald had brought her to this excessively careful house, where she had felt very much alone and very unlike herself. Anna watched her from the windows, watched the carriage jolt away along the cobbled street and disappear. Lucy wore it every day from then on. There was no rush. Wild. For that worthless father of yours—’ Melusine let go the hand only so that she might throw her own hands in the air. She was no longer there. 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. 1.
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