Then he looked towards his granddaughter once more, who had flounced away to the window at her greataunt’s interruption. Mr. 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. “Gods,” she said, at last, “I’ve done it this time!” “Well!” She took up the neat morocco purse, opened it, and examined the contents. That dress is thirty years old, if a day. Still, one has to be reasonable. Giles's.
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