[Florence:] November 11, 1854 [postmark].

My dearest Sarianna,--I shall be writing my good deeds in water to-day
with this mere pretence at inks.[37] We are all well, though it is much
too cold for me--a horrible tramontana which would create a cough under
the ribs of death, and sets me coughing a little in the morning. I am
afraid it's to be a hard winter again this year--or harder than last
year's. We began fires on the last day of October, after the most
splendid stretch of spring, summer, and autumn I ever remember. We have
translated our room into winter--sent off the piano towards the windows,
and packed tables, chairs, and sofas as near to the hearth as possible.

What a time of anxiety this war time is![38] I do thank God that _we_
have no reasons for its being a personal agony, through having anyone
very precious at the post of danger. I have two first cousins there, a
Hedley, and Paget Butler, Sir Thomas's son. I understand that the gloom
in England from the actual bereavements is great; that the frequency of
deep mourning strikes the eye; that even the shops are filled chiefly
with black; and that it has become a sort of _mode_ to wear black or
grey, without family losses, and from the mere force of sympathy.

My poor father is still unable to stir from the house, and he has been
unwell through a bilious attack, the consequence of want of exercise.
Nothing can induce him to go out in a carriage, because he 'never did in
his life drive out for mere amusement,' he says. There's what Mr. Kenyon
calls 'the Barrett obstinacy,' and it makes me uneasy as to the effect
of it in this instance upon the general health of the patient. Poor
darling Arabel seems to me much out of spirits--'out of humour,' _she_
calls it, dear thing--oppressed by the gloom of the house, and looking
back yearningly to the time when she had sisters to talk to. Oh
Sarianna, I wish we were all together to have a good gossip or groaning,
with a laugh at the end!...

Your ever affectionate sister,
BA.