The hour for which, presumably, she had been created was drawing nigh. " CHAPTER XI. Men usually do. 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. ’ ‘It’s immaterial, in any event,’ Roding put in.
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