"My son is not very complicated, Mariotta, although the artifice glitters. He's afraid--" "Afraid!" Blue eyes, dead of feeling, looked into blue. "Afraid of what? Damned by the church and condemned by the law: what possible capacity for fear can heart and head still find? Oime el cor, oime la testa ... After five years of villainy, I promise you, I have the refinement of a cow-cabbage." "--Afraid I might puncture the cocoon of Attic detachment. What we see is acting, isn't it, Francis?" "Is it?" he said derisively. "You won't get your diamonds back, I fear, when the curtain comes down. And the name, please, is Lymond: a new medal: choose the trussell or the pile. My present face is the provident, forbearing one."