My name is Wild— Jonathan Wild. They did not speak until he had driven past town limits and were on the highway. The chamber, into which he stole, like all carpenters' workshops, was crowded with the implements and materials of that ancient and honourable art. Odd, but he had never thought of the beach until this girl (who looked as if she had stepped out of the family album) referred to it with a familiarity which was as astonishing as it was profoundly sad. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death.
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