They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. Ann Veronica halted a pace, and Miss Klegg came alongside. 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 moral right of the author has been asserted. " "I don't care if he is," rejoined Thames, boldly. He seemed to be about to move toward her. It was at the top of the building, and looked clear over a clustering mass of inferior buildings toward Regent’s Park. She calmed herself, breathing deeply.
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