Joanna had been four years old when her mother had died

rather suddenly at their home in London and her father, unable

to settle after her death, had sold up and gone to live in the
Canary islands. Joanna, pale and wan and missing her mother
dreadfully, had bloomed like a fower in the sun and gradually
the beauty of her surroundings had sought expression in her
love to draw and paint. An interest that had grown through the
years had become serious and she lived to paint. here was so
much beauty on the island !the soft"eyed donkeys with their
burdens, the workers on the banana plantations reaching
almost to the cli# tops, the many fowers and shrubs and the
hill scenes of caves$ made into dwellings as sweet and inviting
as any %nglish cottage. he beauty of it all caught at Joanna$s
throat as, clad in blue denim shorts and a sleeveless top, she
walked on to the terrace on long golden legs to shake back a
silky curtain of brown hair and lift her face to the sun. he
casual, graceful gesture gave the falling line of her pro&le a
swift, vivid loveliness.