Only we talk of Italy in the distance.
My book is not ready for the press yet; and as to writing here, who could produce an epic in the pauses of a summerset?
Not that my poem is an epic, I hurry on to say in consideration for dear Mr.Martin's feelings.

I flatter myself it's a _novel_, rather, a sort of novel in verse.

Arabel looks well.
What pens! What ink! Do write, and tell me of _you both_.

I love you cordially indeed.
Your ever affectionate BA.
* * * * * _To Mrs.Jameson_ 13 Dorset Street: Tuesday, [July-August 1855].
My dearest Mona Nina,--I write to you in the midst of so much fatigue and unsatisfactory turmoil, that I feel I shall scarcely be articulate in what I say.

Still, it must be tried, for I can't have you think that I have come to London to forget you, much less to be callous to the influence of this dear affectionate letter of yours.