The picture might easily apply to The Tigress: outwardly disreputable, but richly and comfortably appointed below. Look at the poor victim at your feet. 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. Then he turned round and gazed thoughtfully at the particular spot in the fog where Courtlaw had disappeared.
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