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. Though by no means so extensive or commodious as the modern prison, Old Newgate was a large and strongly-built pile. This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's.
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