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. Just speak the word," he added, drawing the knife significantly across his throat, "and I'll put it out of his power to do the same by your second. “Yes,” she said, “that is what we ought to do. Wood from pressing his suit long ago. She warmed to him fast, her anger was much harder to carry than the pleasant everyday neutrality of affection. White?” she asked, laughing.
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