ABSTRACT
Then she says, out of nowhere, “When I was seven, my father said ‘Who remembers the opening of the Aeneid?’ as he stood at the end of the table, carving the Sunday joint. ‘Anyone?’ They were all better scholars than me, but I knew. ‘Arma virumque cano. Everyone cheered—Leo, the cook, Margaret, Charity, George, even Mother. My father slowly put down the knife and fork and just stared at me. I wasn't supposed to be the clever one.”
