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. Suddenly the Wastrel took hold of the edge and flung the table aside. She slipped past the servants, her soft roe-skin shoes unheard on the old stone. .
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