But in that reservation it may be she went a little beyond the converse of his view. In each corner stood a stout square post reaching to the ceiling. 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. "We'll see that, you yelping hounds!" rejoined Jonathan, glaring fiercely at them. She twanged the catgut under her fingers.
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