Within forty-eight hours the girl would be on her way east and the boy see-sawing the South China Sea, for ever moving at absolute angles. “What did it matter?” she cried. “And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's. I thought every one had heard about it. That he should pay forty pounds to help this girl who preferred another man was no less in his eyes than a fraud and mockery that made her denial a maddening and outrageous disgrace to him. 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. She lunched at a creamery in Great Portland Street, and as the day was full of wintry sunshine, spent the rest of the lunch-hour in a drowsy gloom, which she imagined to be thought upon the problems of her position, on a seat in Regent’s Park. On the floor, underneath the sixth row desks, was an ashtray with a small black dot of blood on its blunt round corner.
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