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. But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors. Her depression since the “accident” had possessed her, she no longer cared how she looked as her beauty helped her not. "Go!" said Lady Trafford; "it is my last request.
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