Viewing page 55 of 150

This transcription has been completed. Contact us with corrections.

-54-
last for ever. But by now I was exhausted and so allowed the controversy which was becoming more and more heated, to proceed without me. Besides, had I not seen a curious though not unfamiliar white flash in the eyes of my visitor as she lifted them to the ceiling? Perhaps this distracted lady was becoming demented? Has she not built for herself a sort of cabin amid the ruins in her garden, where she sits the day long, alone with her rescued treasures: stoves, bathtubs, bolts, bars, screws, pipes, legs of chairs, of sofas and what-nots. These she sorts and re-sorts trying to bring together their component parts, but like obstinate jig-saw puzzles they refuse to come right. 
December 23rd. Though we are living through moments of great suspense, though we are constantly scanning Italian newspapers and listening to English, French, and Italian voices over the radio, yet nothing seems to prevent our being called to attention by the trivial incidents of everyday life. Yesterday my peasants' house was searched by the military police. Tomalino is suspected of being a franc-tireur and an inveterate bully (that he certainly is). All seemed to point to prison but no, a few hours after the search for hidden fire-arms (his wounded brother managed to throw two guns out of the window just in time) there he was quietly picking up olives in my garden or rather getting his wife to pick them up since he is far too fat to lean down