Kneebone in a conciliatory tone. 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. There was no sense in creating further difficulties for herself by arguing with the sergeant over her identity. Or appeared to do so. ‘They hold their nose up, so. Analysis would come later, when the primitive conscience, satisfied, would cease to dominate his thought and action. I must tell somebody—and you would understand. She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten. Ann Veronica paused before she answered.
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