The teacher droned on and on about the mournful funerary love of Romeo and Juliet, a tale she had long since tired of. "To be sure he has!" returned Mrs. “John. "What's that to you?" demanded Jonathan, gruffly. There's my thumb upon it. 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. He’s dead.
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