Yes!" she screamed, "these are his father's features! It is—it is my son!" "Mother!" cried Thames; "are you, indeed, my mother?" "I am, indeed—my own sweet boy!" she sobbed, pressing him tenderly to her breast. ‘That is not your affair. She sat down awkwardly and helplessly on one of the little stools by her table and covered her face with her hands. We must always move on. The rich, heavy food sat in her stomach like so many soft pebbles. So I asks the maid a few questions like, and it seems it ain’t Mister Charvill they’re going to visit again, but General Charvill. It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat.
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