" Ideas are never born; they are suggested; they are planted seeds. 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. It was noon when the caravan reached the tower of the water-clock. “You are afraid,” she said, “that the young man who thinks that he is my husband has upset me.
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