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nothing that could possible be termed valuable. The "silver" is ugly plate-ware, the linen all falling to pieces, the furniture mainly composed of giant wardrobes, ugly inlaid desks topped with great ornamental horn, chests of drawers too clumsy to be of any practical use. At times my mind does revert to these choice bits of old English silver which were left stored in an upper room of my Paris flat; and, those unique old mirrors of unknown provenance, hanging in the dining-room, showing boats and clouds ever floating away; a miraged reality in the transparence of space. Where are these now? Fortunately a collection of paintings: a Monet, a Degas and others were sent to safety before my departure in 1940. My own paintings were removed by the Louvre Museum.

This studio-flat belongs to us. I have had no news of it since the last violent bombing of Paris. From the windows could be see across the river the Citroen works which I hear were the "point de mire" of the bombings. It is more than likely that this modern and not over-solidly build immeuble has already collapsed, even though it may not have been bombed outright.

October 11th. Natalie took her little French-Italian protegee who is at the Girls' School Poggio Imperiale to have gouter with our neighbours. The child related that when the Germans appeared outside of Paris and were about to occupy the house where she was staying with