Dear Madam. Knopf,

we settled here, in a villa by the sea, until the end of March.
It is a lovely house that rises from the small hill above the castle, just above the village and the sea. The sun is shining, the eternal Mediterranean is blue and young, the last leaves are falling from the vines in the garden. the farmers are kind, I made a small supply of red and white wine, from the garden of this house, we eat fried chicken and pasta and the kitchen smells of rosemary and basil and there is always someone roasting coffee and oranges on the trees they are already yellow. It's Italy, the same as always, whether Mussolini or Ottaviano Augusto is there. In America they say that Europe is old: in Italy, which is always a little infantile, there is horror at America's senescence. That's how it is. The sun is about to set, I wish winter didn't have such short days.
I hope everything goes well for you.

Kind regards from both D.H. Lawrence.