It’s one of their worst traits, one of their very worst. The two aunts of these young ladies lived for many years in the dower house upon my estate in Hampshire. Come up stairs, and take a glass of brandy. Prudence. 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. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.
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