" "Stand off, Sir!" exclaimed Trenchard, starting suddenly backwards. 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. Instead, she laughed, laughed with lips and eyes, laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. Happy Thanksgiving. From the centre of the ceiling hung a replica of the temple lamp in the Taj Mahal. I’m not mad that he has eyes for you instead of me, not mad at all.
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