” Her elation teetered in mid-air for a second, then began to flutter down around her like a badly-built house of cards. " Spurlock obeyed mechanically. 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. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. “You see, father,” she said, “it isn’t only this affair of the dance.
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