One peculiarity she did not fail to notice. 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. Chapter VIII “WHITE’S” Northwards, away from the inhospitality of West Kensington, rumbled the ancient four-wheel cab, laden with luggage and drawn by a wheezy old horse rapidly approaching its last days. Then they deliberated whether Bernard Shaw ought to go into Parliament. The infant’s body, now missing its pulverized head, was still twitching among the blood-soaked ruins of corpses. They are their mother’s sons.
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