Under actual circumstances something different from Paris must satisfy me.

Also, when all's said and sighed.

I love Italy--I love my Florence.

I love that 'hole of a place,' as Father Prout called it lately--with all its dust, its cobwebs, its spiders even, I love it, and with somewhat of the kind of blind, stupid, respectable, obstinate love which people feel when they talk of 'beloved native lands.' I feel this for Italy, by mistake for England.

Florence is my chimney-corner, where I can sulk and be happy.
But you haven't come to that yet.