My dearest Sarianna,—­You can’t think how pleased I am to find myself in Florence again in our own house, everything looking exactly as if we had left it yesterday.  Scarcely I can believe that we have gone away at all.  But Robert has been perfectly demoralised by Paris, and thinks it all as dull as possible after the boulevards:  ‘no life, no variety.’  Oh, of course it is very dead in comparison! but it’s a beautiful death, and what with the lovely climate, and the lovely associations, and the sense of repose, I could turn myself on my pillow and sleep on here to the end of my life; only be sure that I shall do no such thing.  We are going back to Paris; you will have us safe.  Peninni had worked himself up to a state of complete agitation on entering Florence, through hearing so much about it.  First he kissed me and then Robert again and again, as if his little heart were full. ‘Poor Florence’ said he while we passed the bridge.  Certainly there never was such a darling since the world began....  I suffered extremely through our unfortunate election of the Mont Cenis route (much more my own fault than Robert’s), and was extremely unwell at Genoa, to the extent of almost losing heart and hope, which is a most unusual case with me, but the change from Lyons had been too sudden and severe.  At Genoa the weather was so exquisite, so absolutely June weather, that at the end of a week’s lying on the sofa, I had rallied again quite, only poor darling Robert was horribly vexed and out of spirits all that time, as was natural.  I feel myself, every now and then (and did then), like a weight round his neck, poor darling, though he does not account it so, for his part.  Well, but it passed, and we were able to walk about beautiful Genoa the last two days, and visit Andrea Doria’s palace and enjoy everything together.  Then we came on by a night and day’s diligence through a warm air, which made me better and better.  By the way, Turin is nearly as cold as Chambery; you can’t believe yourself to be in Italy.  Susa, at the foot of the Alps, is warmer.  We were all delighted to hear the sound of our dear Italian, and inclined to be charmed with everything; and Peninni fairly expressed the kind of generalisations we were given to, when he observed philosophically, ’In Italy, pussytats don’t never scwatch, mama.’  This was in reply to an objection I had made to a project of his about kissing the head of an enchanting pussy-cat who presented herself in vision to him as we were dining at Turin....  God bless and preserve you.  We love you dearly, and talk of you continually—­of both of you.  Your most affectionate sister,

BA.

Best love to your father.—­Peninni.

* * * * *

To John Kenyon

Casa Guidi:  November 23, 1852.

We flatter ourselves, dearest Mr. Kenyon, that as we think so much of you, you may be thinking a little of us, and will not be sorry—­who knows?—­to have a few words from us.