I was writing in our front room this afternoon and trying hard to keep my attention on my work and refrain from looking out upon the canal.

I was resisting the soft influences of the climate as well as I could, and endeavoring to overcome the desire to be indolent and happy.

The boys sent for a barber.

They asked me if I would be shaved.

I reminded them of my tortures in Genoa, Milan, Como; of my declaration that I would suffer no more on Italian soil.