Practically. ’ ‘Poor sort of a mother,’ Martha said with bitterness. I do not say guest because that suggests friendship; and I am no friend of this Wastrel. I'll have no such toast drunk at my table!" "It's the king's birthday," urged the woollen draper. 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.
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