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10

(1921) Author: Sigrid Undset
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Rome of his imagination and his dreams, but Rome as she
actually was.

Everything else he had seen on his journey had disappointed
him, for it was not what he had imagined at home when he had
been longing to go abroad and see it all. One sight at last
was far beyond his dreams, and that was Rome.

A plain of housetops lay beneath him in the valley, the roofs
of houses new and old, of houses high and low — it looked as
if they had been built anywhere and at any time, and of a size
to suit the need of the moment. In a few places only a space
could be seen between the mass of housetops, as of streets. All
this world of reckless lines, crossing each other in a thousand
hard angles, was lying inert and quiet under the pale skies,
while the setting sun touched the borders of the clouds with a
tinge of light. It was dreaming under a thin veil of white mist,
which no busy pillar of smoke dared penetrate, for no factory
chimney could be seen, and no smoke came from a single one of
the funny little chimney pipes protruding from the houses. The
round, old, rust-brown tiles were covered by greyish moss, grass
and small plants with yellow blossoms grew in the gutters;
along the border of the terraces the aloes stood immovably still
in their tubs, and creepers hung in dead cascades from the
cornices. Here and there the upper part of a high house rose
above its neighbour, its dark, hollow windows staring at one
out of a grey or reddish-yellow wall, or sleeping behind closed
shutters. Loggias stood out of the mist, looking like parts of
an old watchtower, and small summer-houses of wood or
corrugated iron were erected on the roofs.

Above it all masses of church cupolas were floating — the
huge, grey one, far on the other side of what Helge supposed
to be the river, was that of St. Peter.

Beyond the valley, where the roofs covered the silent city —
it well deserved the epithet “eternal” tonight — a low hill
stretched its longish back toward the skies, carrying on the

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