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safety near the chicken coop. When this fearful experience was over the Professor joined us for a cup of tea. He held his head in his hands and demanded that the horror should cease at once. 'Abbastanza! Abbastanza!' he kept on repeating.

March 25th. To commemorate the Fascist anniversary the worst bombing of Florence took place this morning. Clouds of smoke and dust rising from the Camp di Marte reached us. The railways were being aimed at, many work-people were killed and their home destroyed. It is a relief to hear the so far no palace or monument has been touched: one trembles to think what may still be in store. While we were huddled in the trench N. showed that her nerves were in a bad state, for in the intervals of the terrific bombing she kept talking excitedly to Antonio about our every household trouble: the gardener was an idiot; when he though no one was looking he threw all the big stones from the newly dug up trench into the neat box-wood lining the paths; he brought out the lilies from the green-house far too soon, with the result that they are now frost-bitten; he neglected the magnolia tree which for want of proper chemicals is losing its leaves, and so forth. I tried to stay this flow of irrelevant matter but N. explained the it eased the tension and diverted her mind. No sooner back in my room trying to collect my thoughts then I heard voices in the garden and from my window I saw looking up at me the pale and anxious faces of our neighbours. No doubt it