The wind is singing a wild tune to-night—cannot be colder on our own heaths—and the waves dash like our Waterhead. Oh me, when I'm walking round it again how like a sad dream all this Venice will be!
Venice
,
15th May
, 1877.
I've not tumbled into the lagoons, nor choked myself in a passion, nor gone and made a monk of myself—nor got poisoned by the Italian cooks.
I'm packing up, and coming to the Thwaite as soon as ever I can—after a little Alpine breathing of high air.
I'm pretty well—if you'll forgive me for being so naughty—else I can't be even plain well—but I'm always your loving——
[Transcriber's Note: no ending to the sentence here.]