"Stir a foot, at your peril. A wife formed part of his scheme of life, for several years he had been secretly but assiduously looking for her. She ran from the knave into the women’s quarters. “Miserable bounder,” he murmured. 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. He was always anticipating, stepping into the future, torturing himself with non-existent troubles.
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