But she could not live in constant association with him without having these gaps filled. 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. "What do you mean?" cried Winifred in alarm. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream.
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