He thanked Heaven that he had never been able to detect in the boy any trace of the piece of cheap prettiness that had given him birth.

He might have been his own son, son of the woman who had been the rapture and the ruin of his life.

There were times when Sir Beverley almost wished he had been, albeit in the bitterness of his soul he had never had any love for the child she had borne him.
He had never wanted to love Piers either, but somehow the matter had not rested with him.

From the arms of Victor, Piers had always yearned to his grandfather, wailing lustily till he found himself held to the hard old heart that had nought but harshness and intolerance for all the world beside.

He had as it were taken that unwilling heart by storm, claiming it as his right before he was out of his cradle.