She put her hand in his to be squeezed. Taber. I could never make you understand. They were in different key, they had a different timbre. 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. Yet she took with her an uneasy consciousness that in this affair might lie the germs of future trouble. After that night she made it a habit. It's kind of comforting to have you there. .
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