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Allie and Henry are in Italy, in love and staying on the Adriatic Riviera, hunting down a Roman amphora for their wealthy American customer. The seller's provenance seems good... how can anything go wrong? The clue is in the title of the book.
"Tell me then, Allie. When is a fake not a fake?',
We were strolling along the edge of the sea and mildly arguing. Rosso, bored with us, was far ahead, dancing in the ebb and flow of the small waves, occasionally barking at their advance. It occurred to me that his actions reflected how we were talking back and forth, with me raising a sporadic objection. I was beginning to tire of my efforts to make Henry see sense.
'A fake is always a fake in my mind, Henry.'
'But is a replica a fake? How about painters who copy a great master in order to hone their own skill? I've spent hours in galleries copying Constable, Gainsborough, Turner... it's a method of learning.'
I sighed with exasperation."
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