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-72-

ILLNESS.

Then followed many weeks of battling with pleurisy and pneumonia. Though already worn out when received into the convent, my naturally healthy constitution would have quickly recuperated with plenty of good food and air. The strange, unsubstantial meals -- varying in quality and quantity in accordance with the rules of the many fast days -- were insufficient for my particular needs. There were endless beetroot salads, chunks of tunny and hard cheese which, unwillingly, I learnt to eat with a knife. The morning breakfast began with a small cup of black chocolate and stale rolls, never accompanied with butter. My companions had additional food supplied by their parents, and many of them spent week-ends at their homes.

As I tossed in bed with fever I would pray God that He urge my mother to send me oranges from her Riviera garden. These prayers remained unanswered. Then I asked the Sister for tea -- a beverage unknown in the convent -- and was given a bitter concoction seemingly made and soaked tobacco leaves.

My bed was one of many in a small room which at night was filled with Sisters. The one window was never opened and the door leading into another room often closed. I suffered from want of fresh air. One might at the very height of my illness I managed to get out of bed, crawl to the door and open it. Unable to climb back to bed again I lay across its narrow width the whole night through.

There were moments when around me rose the faint drone of prayers. Now and again a large glass of bitter quinine water was placed to my mouth. Only a miracle could save me. At last, as a special favour, I was given holy water from Jerusalem to drink. Its tepid nastiness produced results worse than might be caused by the roughest sea voyage to that Holy City. When the doctor came I implored him: "Mica Chinina! Mica acqua santa!" -- No more quinone! No more holy water! This appeal amused him but shocked the Sisters.