He opts to play politely, contorting his face to a facsimile of theirs, smile and all. If only they knew that, beyond all the perfunctory "how do you do's," mundane "have a good day's," and the rest of the affectations of small talk, there exists a person. If only they were all fencers. At least when fencers don their masks, their dances are short and they try to get to the heart of a person. The last time anybody had even tried, he had, by knee-jerk reaction, parried.
God dammit, he'd parried.
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