Margaret's ankle is almost well; she walked the length of the piazza to-day, with the Doctor on one side and Mr. Ramsay on the other. The Doctor is delighted with the improvement in his patient, and yet he looks quite serious when we talk of leaving next week for Lucerne, en route for Paris. Here he comes to ask me to take a spin in his auto car. As Margaret and Z. are both up on the hillside with their suitors (I have given up all attempts to chaperon them), I shall have to look up Mrs. Coxe and make her go with me. She hates automobiles, poor soul!—says they take away her breath and make her heart thump, but she will have to go all the same. I shouldn't in the least object to going with Dr. A. alone, but he would be scandalized at the mere mention of such a reckless proceeding, so Mrs. Coxe must be sacrificed to the proprieties.
I wish you knew Dr. A. He is a perfect dear. I am sure that you would like him.
This is the longest letter that I have ever written, but then there was so much to tell you, and as Margaret seems to have forgotten how to write, some one must do it for the party. Hoping to see you and papa in Paris or London, believe me
Your affectionate daughter,
Angela.
Transcriber's Note:
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation in the original document have been preserved.
The text uses the spelling/punctuation Sant' Angelo, Lung' Arno, and bell 'alma, which have been retained.