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. The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. His diminutive hand flew out from behind his back like a wounded bird. Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. gutenberg.
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