Do you know whoso portrait this is?" "I do not," replied Thames, repressing his tears, "but I believe it to be the portrait of my father. Well, I don't think they'll any of 'em nab him, that's one comfort. " Thames turned away at the question, which he felt might be construed into a reproach. But that was soon put right, and she walked out into London with a peculiar exaltation of mind, an exaltation that partook of panic and defiance, but was chiefly a sense of vast unexampled release. Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles. “How’s the star?” John’s father asked.
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