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strapping priest who, though hampered by long skirts, strutted forward pushing his way through the crowd. When he tried to dislodge my hand from the rails I gave him a very hard shove. For once, Natalie was following me and looking back I saw that she was being none too gently treated by this emissary of Christ. Though we were packed like herrings on the platform, Natalie was all for accosting her aggressor and reminding him that there was no need to be in such a hurry when he had all eternity before him. But I discouraged Natalie displaying her nimble wits in bad Italian.

December 7th. Florence to be an open city; so it is said. May it prove to be true! Our newly constructed stronghold downstairs is still unfinished. It began so well with wooden columns, beams and side beams, somewhat like a primitive cathedral (with capacity for holding fifteen people). Then came the hitch: the door on the priest's garden facing Florence had to be padded on the ouside with sandbags and yet allow of an exit. The clever workman had gone, his work was done and well done. The sandbags were the affair of another workman who proved to be a halfwit. When this sandbag specialist came to us for advice, though somewhat surprised, we were quite willing to suggest ideas according to our lights. Natalie's ideas seemed the best: bags filled with earth packed half-way up the door, then other bags on top of these filled with gravel which, if necessary, one dig with a pickaxe would cause