I did not like Rome, I think I confessed to you.

In the second place, when your last letter reached me--I mean the letter in which you told me to write to you directly--I _would_ have written directly, but was so very unwell that you would not have wished me even to try if, absent in the flesh, you had been present in spirit.

I have had a severe attack on the chest--the worst I ever had in Italy--the consequence of exceptionally severe weather--bitter wind and frost together--which quite broke me up with cough and fever at night.

Now I am well again, only of course much weakened, and grown thin.

I mean to get fat again upon cod's liver oil, in order to appear in England with some degree of decency.