Not you, dear friend; you would draw it too mild; you have too much of the milk of human kindness.

I have fits of horrible homesickness for my studio, and I shall be devoutly grateful when the summer is over and I can go back and swing a chisel.

I feel as if nothing but the chisel would satisfy me; as if I could rush in a rage at a block of unshaped marble.

There are a lot of the Roman people here, English and American; I live in the midst of them and talk nonsense from morning till night.

There is also some one else; and to her I don't talk sense, nor, thank heaven, mean what I say.