From the bridge, too, through one of the officers' glasses, Frank could see, far inland across the Pontine Marshes, the gilded dome of St.Peter's, glimmering in the pellucid morning sunlight.
She called Durkin, and pointed it out to him.
"See, it's Rome!" she cried, with strangely mingled feelings.

"It's St.Peter's!" "I wish it was the Statue of Liberty and New York," he said, moodily.
She realized, then, that he was not quite so happy as he had pretended to be.

And she herself, from that hour forward, shared in his secret unrest.

For as time slipped away and her eye followed the heightening line of the Apennines, she knew that tranquil Tyrrhenian Sea would not long be left to her.
It was evening when they rounded the terraced vineyards of Ischia.

A low red moon shone above the belching pinnacle of Vesuvius.