He was listening, with death in his heart.

The whole fantastic substructure of his life had been suddenly kicked away, and his life was an inchoate ruin.

Gone was the glamour of romance in which since the day of the cornelian heart he had had his essential being.

Up to an hour ago he had never doubted his mysterious birth.

No real mother could have pursued an innocent child with Polly Kegworthy's implacable hatred.