“Ma! Italian, naturally, since she married the Duca,” Marietta replied.
“Indeed? Then the leopard can change his spots?” was Peter's inference.
“The leopard?” said Marietta, at a loss.
“If the Devil may quote Scripture for his purpose, why may n't I?” Peter demanded. “At all events, the Duchessa di Santangiolo is a very beautiful woman.”
“The Signorino has seen her?” Marietta asked.
“I have grounds for believing so. An apparition—a phantom of delight—appeared on the opposite bank of the tumultuous Aco, and announced herself as my landlady. Of course, she may have been an impostor—but she made no attempt to get the rent. A tall woman, in white, with hair, and a figure, and a voice like cooling streams, and an eye that can speak volumes with a look.”
Marietta nodded recognition.
“That would be the Duchessa.”
“She's a very beautiful duchessa,” reiterated Peter.
Marietta was Italian. So, Italian—wise, she answered, “We are all as God makes us.”