He wearied her with presents of jewellery and costly dresses, though, as he quietly remarked to Agias, the gifts meant no more of sacrifice to him than an obol to a rich spendthrift.
He filled her ears with music all day long; he entertained her with inimitable narrations of his own adventurous voyages and battles.

And only dimly could Cornelia realize that the gems she wore in her hair, her silken dress, nay, almost everything she touched, had come from earlier owners with scant process of law.
Demetrius was no common rover.

He had been a young man of rare culture before misfortune struck him.

He knew his Homer and his Plato as well as how to swing a sword.

"Yet," as he remarked with half jest, half sigh, "all his philosophy did not make him one whit more an honest man." And in his crew of Greeks, Orientals, and Spaniards were many more whom calamity, not innate wickedness, so Cornelia discovered, had driven to a life of violence and rapine.
Demetrius, too, gave no little heed to Artemisia.