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 detective went down on his hands and knees. May I do so to-day?” “It’s your gate,” she said, amiably; “you got it first. You remember that you saw us at the Savoy a few evenings ago?” “Yes. But when she reached the pavement outside her teeth were clenched, and she carried herself unconsciously an inch or so higher. That night she found a ship bound to sail for the heathen nation called America. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. “Is this hansom for me?” she said. . , like to forget all about it—even their names.
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