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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 has been … rather a hard day, Hoddy," Ruth answered. I worshipped her and subdued myself. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. It did not cheer or fortify him with false courage and recklessness; it simply enveloped him in a mist of unreality. Ah Cum's glance returned to the girl. For a stunned moment, Emile did not speak. He was smiling under his heavy mustache, and his head was a little on one side as he looked at her.
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