A certain irritation crept into his manner as he did so. Occasionally he relit his pipe. Already she missed all of her fine things, her linens and leather bound books. 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. Gerald at once rid himself of his own glass and leapt to her assistance. ‘You don’t mean to say she’s here?’ ‘Was,’ Gerald corrected. ‘Come along. ‘It is Yol—’ She broke off abruptly, her face collapsing into an expression of acute consternation.
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