I was told the story of an old peasant woman. When she was younger she lost her only son, and only child. He was killed in the Second World War. Her neighbours, remembering she had almost idolized the child, thought that she would be inconsolable, and they were astonished when she adopted another son. They were still more astonished because he was a little black boy. She gave him everything that her son had owned. There was no doubt of her love for him. There could be none for those who saw her face, weather-beaten and lined, marked and sealed with sorrow, and yet shining with quiet happiness.