Daughters were not like sons. On the envelope was written— Sydney Courtlaw, Esq. Suddenly she thrust her head out of the window. 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. ‘Ah, no,’ Gerald uttered at once, lowering his voice and infusing it with all the promise he could command. She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself. I wish very much that you had written before leaving Paris. She felt terrible lying to him. D'ye hear.
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