“But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself. “Not since 1582 when I left him and came to America. 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 young man was mollified by her sympathy, and flattered by the obvious attempts of several of the other guests to draw him into conversation. As she talked, the drift and significance of what she was saying shaped itself slowly to Ann Veronica’s apprehension.
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