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. "Off with it to the health of King James the Third, and confusion to his enemies!" "Hold!" interposed Wood; "that is treason. . She began to draw on her gloves thoughtfully. "Why you wouldn't stand in the way of his good fortune surely? I'll be a second father to him, I tell you. 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. ‘I will not, if you will assure me that an imbecile is a better marriage prospect than a starving pig. Let us proceed with our tale. ‘I have the means to compel you. Oh, and weeks and months of thought and feeling there are bottled up too.
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