Lake Bracciano was small; a mere pond, Trotti thought disparagingly, as he looked through the panoramic window.
("You'll be impressed by my lake." One of the last things Trotti had said to the girl on the train.
"Your lake?"
"You must come and visit me at the Villa Ondina. Garda's beautiful and very big. More like a sea than a lake."
"Big lake, Commissario?" Wilma giggled then, just as the Petrarca was pulling into Rome. "You really don't know Lake Michigan, do you? You must come and visit me and my lake in Illinois.")