It was the love, her mother had said, that filled every house where they had lived.
It was love that made them happy wherever they were.
She believed, as her father had, that it was love that had made Tony, David, and Lucy so good-looking as well as herself.
“The Greeks believed,” Sir John had said as she sat on his knee, “that children born of love were beautiful and the Greek woman would look at beautiful statues and think of noble deeds, which pleased the Gods on Olympus, so that their children were very very beautiful.”
“Like Mama?” Minerva had asked.
“Exactly like your mother,” her father had answered, “and like you, my dearest!”
He had kissed her.
Minerva had thought of herself ever afterwards as the cupid dancing on the ceiling at The Castle.
‘Perhaps it is love – that will
