He wriggled underneath her heaving body, pinned like an insect. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now. I always say that it’s poverty before everything that makes a girl skip the line. ’ ‘Well, sir? Who is “she”? Not my granddaughter, I take it. Her hair was gathered up behind, in a sort of pad, according to the then prevailing mode; and she wore a muslin cap, and pinners with crow-foot edging. I defy you to explain it away. 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. She seemed bursting with the desire to talk, and watching for her opportunity. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation.
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