Central Italy seems safe.
But let me tell you of my thin slice of a wicked book.

Yes, I shall expect you to read it, and I send you an order for it to Chapman, therefore.

Everybody will hate me for it, and so _you must_ try hard to love me the more to make up for that.

Say it's mad, and bad, and sad; but _add_ that somebody did it who meant it, thought it, felt it, throbbed it out with heart and brain, and that she holds it for truth in conscience and not in partisanship.

I want to tell you (oh, I can't help telling you) that when the ode was read before Peni, at the part relating to Italy his eyes overflowed, and down he threw himself on the sofa, hiding his face.