Alette Peters was twenty years old, and she could be plain-looking, attractive or stunningly beautiful,
depending on her mood or how she was feeling about herself, but she was never simply pretty.
Part of her charm was that she was completely unaware of her looks.
She was shy and soft-spoken, with a gentleness that was almost an anachronism.
Alette had been born in Rome, and she had a musical Italian accent, and she loved everything about Rome.
She had stood at the top of the Spanish Steps and looked over the city and felt that it was hers.
When she gazed at the ancient temples and the giant Colosseum, she knew she belonged to that era.
She had strolled in the Piazza Navona, listened to the music of the waters in the Fountain of the Four Rivers
and walked the Piazza Venezia, with its wedding cake monument to Victor Emanuel.
She had spent endless hours at St. Peter’s Basilica, the Vatican Museum and the Borghese Gallery,
enjoying the timeless works of Raphael and Fra Bartolommeo and Andrea del Sarto and Pontormo.
Their talent both transfixed her and frustrated her; she wished she had been born in the sixteenth century and had known them.
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