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As I was walking up the hill today an elderly American woman spoke to me. We had already met somewhere. She was now a "sfollata" at a friend's house, her own having suffered from the bombing. She had brought with her to comparative safety an eighty year old American woman friend: "A great musician who writes songs like Tosti." It is bewildering the number of "great artists" one meets in Florence. Nearly every person I have met so far is one of them: The jittery, cross-eyed Signorina X. is a great poetess; it is inhuman to sniff at her verses; the Fräulein Z. is a great painter and a German by birth, so it behoves one to admire her paint-box sprinkling of flowers. I now understand why in my youth I rebelled against all such dwellers within these Paradisiac back-waters.

[[/uniderline]]October 9th.[[/underline ends]] Listening over the radio to the French news, at first one is soothed on hearing about such quiet events as "Le Marechal Petain entertained 'les maires des départements'"; received this or that "homme d'Etat"; instituted "la Charte du Travail"; was offered a work of art by the miners, and so on. It would seem that in spite of the bombing of her cities Frances is picking up, is gaining courage under the guidance of her wise old leader. Yes, it is so soothing that I am about to fall asleep .... when suddenly, from over the ether comes the clarion voice of Henriot, of Crecelles, sounding notes of warning and of distress; Bolshevism menacing France, menacing all Europe. Today Crecelles brought forward one proof after another showing