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anything I have seen in Italy. I never could look at those horrible old pictures without being sick and I find I grow worse instead of better. It seemed good to get out into the bright sunshine again and breathe the fresh air again. Of course all the old pictures don't impress me in that way but most of those of old saints do and that is about all those old tarriers painted before Raphael's time. We staid out till about half past four listening to the band and then came back to the hotel to get ready for dinner.  

My dear Emmie I have'nt complained of your letters have I or of the infrequency (how is that for a word) of them? Neither was I mad with what you wrote only I thought I had said something that you did'nt like: so there is nothing to forgive you for.  

So you think I ought to fall in love with the model: well I suppose I ought but really I cant make up my mind to. She has about as much intelligence as an ordinary block of wood and is a vain as a peacock. All the time she is not posing she is either looking at her hands and feet or gazing in the glass. She does just as well as ever though and my next to the last picture is nearly finished, we only have 13 more days to stay here and then what?

Now I suppose I shall have to wind up this letter but when I get to writing to you I never know when to stop so you see I am the same old good for nothing as ever.

Once more good night dearest with lots of love,  Ned

[[image]] Memory sketch of the thieves. Do you wonder they made me sick?