From the further end of the apartment came the low music of a violin. She imagined descending the stairs, hearing Mike’s uproarious laughter as she peeked around a vacant corner with a lump in her throat. 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. Of what use was the temporary set-back to memory, when it always returned with redoubled poignancy? Then came another thought, astonishing. ‘Bête,’ she flung at him.
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