The old lady’s face was stiff with anger. “You ought at once—you ought at once to have told her that. “It is rather odd,” he said, “but I always thought that your name was Annabel and hers Anna. "I am not," replied Thames; "but I insist upon your taking it back at once. I'm glad he's come to see me. 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'm glad to hear it, that's all," he added, taking out his snuff-box, his never-failing resource in such emergencies. Oh, Heavens; that I should have ever indulged a hope of happiness while that terrible man lives!" "Compose yourself, Joan," said Wood; "all will yet be well. The world, she discovered, with these matters barred had no particular place for her at all, nothing for her to do, except a functionless existence varied by calls, tennis, selected novels, walks, and dusting in her father’s house.
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