19 September
19 September
19 September 1920
Travelling to Menton, France
My darling little Follower,
It is true - isn't it - that we are going to walk out together every sin¬gle Sunday? All through the week we are hard at work - you, in that horrible black town that I hate, me, on my beautiful island but when Sunday comes (it was my first thought this morning) we adorn ourselves and soon after midi I hear that longed for but rather peculiar, rather funny whistle. I run to the window and there below is a lovely vision in a faded very much-washed creamy linen shirt, linen trousers, a scarlet bellyband - a wide silver-grey hat just a little on one side. I kiss my hand to it, spin down the stairs, and away we go. But for this week at least we'll not go far - only out of sight of the world - that's far enough. For your Wig is still so weak that she can't walk straight - sometimes I fling myself at the doors or take a great high step in the air. But I am really on the mend, dear darling and as to my cough - fancy - I've been here five days & I cough hardly at all. This morning in fact I didn't cough at all and cant remember if I have until now 6 p.m. I only have to get my strength back after this ‘attack'. That is all about me, dear darling.
(There is so much to tell you. I tell you in my mind and then the effort of writing is too much. Forgive for this week an infernally dull girl.) My feeling for this little house is that somehow it ought to be ours. It is I think a perfect house in its way and just our size. [Letter to J. M. Murry in Collected Letters]