Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. She slipped on white thin-soled tennis shoes with no socks, her ankles exposed as Shari had once suggested they be worn. “You’re Glorious!” said Miss Miniver in tones of rapture, holding a hand in each of hers and peering up into Ann Veronica’s face. Even the light was different in Athens, soft and golden, sweet as the morning dew blessed by Athena herself. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag.
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