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immediate when prompted by questions of gain. There comes to mind those forty pieces of soap. Three lire a piece, says Tomalino, then sensing over-eagerness, quick as lightning, twelve lire a piece, then fifteen, then twenty lire. Finally one gratefully accepts six pieces of soap for the sum of two hundred lire. But greatly in his favour is Tomalino's kindness to his dogs. I once saw him carrying in his great arms a small white dog. He was hurrying to the vet to have it treated for fever.
December 25th. Christmas Day. An alarm in the morning: a reminder that become international Communism will make short shrift of such festivals as Christmas.
In the afternoon we received 'dans l'intimité' our two sfollati: our neighbors, (N.'s friend for life) her husband and daughter, and also the greedy little French girl (greedy because she has an appreciation of food unusual for her age, and French because she resembles more her blond French mother, now dead, than her Italian Bourbon father, now a prisoner of war in Africa.
Our guests, as suited the season, all tried to smile and make themselves agreeable. Before me was placed a tray containing eight small glasses of Spumante and eight small pieces of excellent cake made by Antonion with mysterious ingredients, these [[strikethrough]] here [[/strikethrough]] iced with make-believe chocolate but decorated with real walnuts. After partaking of these scant