Such was the terror inspired by Wild's vindictive character, that few durst face him who had given him cause for displeasure. He hated himself a little for it. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "a letter, beginning 'dearest Aliva,'—that's your mother's name, Thames. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. She's my mealticket. It is quite light yet, and I want to have one more look at that angry red sun.
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