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his family and there was no truth in the assertion that we intended sending him away on the arrival of the Americans. Now the result of this talk was that the very next day we could hear Tomalino's wife beating the wheat (threshing machines not being permitted this season for fear of attracting the ubiquitous 'caccia bombardieri') and shortly afterwards my peasant brought to the house two bags of wheat enough only for two months, affirms Antonio and a few kili of potatoes.
July 18th. The constant bombing of the roads beneath our hill continues. There is no such [[strikethough]] a [[/strikethrough]] thing as a quiet night. Everyone of our acquaintances still remaining on the hills faces a predicament of some sort. We had the visit of the proprietor of a fine house near an important road over which will pass the various armies. This middle-aged man is alone, his wife having left him to take refuge in a hospital-covent, his son to less dangerous quarters in the town. He was a prominent Fascist and as such he must face the consequences. Then again there is that White Russian femme du monde with an Uraguaian passport whom we went to see yesterday. She does not want to leave and has refused several offers made by influential relations of hers to convey her and her young Italian artist friend by motor to Como. Young men are boing netted everywhere. To go down to Florence or even to put one's nose outside the door is dangerous, so the young man must remain shut up in the very small villa gloomingly