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. Capes looked at one and not over one, spoke to one, treated one as a visible concrete fact. What reassured her, however, more than anything else, was the shape of the mouth: it was warmly turned. That was the Frenchie, Valade, surely. ” They entered the place, a pleasant little café of the sort to be met with in the outlying parts of Paris. . She had never thought of him at all in that way before.
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