” She instructed him. Two souls in travail; one inspired by fresh hopes, the other, by fresh despairs. “One is always playing the surgeon, one kills always the thing one loves best. 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. They were a dull grey, but the dark frizzed hair that framed her face was attractive. He could hardly open the envelope, he trembled so.
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