‘Do not be imbecile. With the extra seventy-five pounds she had put after birthing her final son, Steven, her knees weren’t in good shape to be running up and down stairs all day. 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. You know that. I shall take to him as nat'ral as if he were my own flesh and blood afore long. ‘Me also I do not recall them. He frowned. He would have risen again, but for the significance of the action.
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