I want to get away. The houses loomed progressively larger as one strode up the block, growing from ranch to two-story, from squat 1950's modern to stately 1890's palace. 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. The thought did not occur to her, for all thought had flown out of her head. Two children, who had been caught in the jam-closet: ingratiating smiles, back of which lay doubt and fear. She lied. .
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