I looked up into the marble face of a woman who looked down at me with a sweet smile. Her nose was long and narrow and her chin came to a point. Her hairstyle was intricate, drawn back into a bun, with curls around her forehead and temple. Ropes of beads or pearls were wound through her hair, and she wore several necklaces of varying lengths. Her dress had short sleeves, a square neckline and a high waist. Her skirt was all folds and pleats. I could not imagine the skill and time it had taken to carve her and all her softness out of a block of stone. I couldn’t identify her era by her hair or her garb because it was all a mishmash of ancient Greek and Roman and British. I had read, recently, an article about the discovery of a head of a statue of Brigantia at an archaeological dig at a Roman fort in England. This woman seemed to be a blending of all three…Diana, Hera, Boudicca. She was not like the gentle wooden women in the sanctuary. She had stood under the elements for a long time, and the marks of time ran down her face and made me want to put my arms around her and comfort her.