“For I know that you love Ennison. I shall still wear your favor—even if it is a stolen and forbidden favor—in my casque. ’ ‘But Marthe, this is idiot. I have only just left Wych Street. 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. All along the wooden benches before it sat a profusion of soldiery, a collection of barbers in attendance, busily employed in replaiting and powdering their hair ready for a military review scheduled for this afternoon.
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