“For me,” Manning went on, “this isn’t final. Burn your palette and your easel. 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. They might applaud, or object, or interfere, but the drama was her very own. She had not felt comfortable in his presence from the first, and with Leonardo’s precepts in mind, was loath to trust him.
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