I knew she was Italy, but I couldn't see through the mask.

All through my illness political dreams have repeated themselves, in inscrutable articles of peace and eternal provisional governments.

Walking on the mountains of the moon, hand in hand with a Dream more beautiful than them all, then falling suddenly on the hard earth-ground on one's head, no wonder that one should suffer.

Oh, Isa, the tears are even now in my eyes to think of it! And yet I have hope, and the more I consider, the more I hope.
There will be no intervention to interfere with us in Tuscany, and there is something _better behind_, which we none of us see yet.
We read to-day of the Florence elections.

May God bless my Florence! Dearest Isa, don't you fancy that you will get off with a day and night here.