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while walking and had to be conducted to a chemist's shop. His wife talked hysterically about vendettas. I reminded her that all wars were nothing but huge and terrible vendettas.
January I5th. Last night there was much bombing and machine firing in Florence. We have been told that the Communists attacked the German Head Quarters, the Grand Hotel and a Palazzo in Via Cavour. Added to this the alarm sounded early in the morning and at once squadrons of aeroplanes flew overhead followed by terrific bombing. Surely this time Florence was being destroyed: For two hours we waited in suspence and when calm returned again I hardly dared ask for news. Imagine my relief on being told that Florence itself had not been bombed at all. The attack was over [?] the suburbs, near the Cape di Marte.
As relaxation I went this afternoon to see 'the Baroness' It is a long pull up her hill, but the walk is so beautiful: old walls, olive trees and views over the hills veiled in the subdued light of a warm and damp winter's day. 'The Baroness'es freshly painted green door leading into her court-yard suddenly loomed before us. To paint doors during war-time is an extravagance (for one so poor:) but to paint them a garish green is downright insolence. Nearby tender nature seemed to shrivel up and die.
January 28th. Last night when the alarm sounded I had decided not to leave my bed when a frightened maid rushed in the room to say