Thursday, December 1, 2016

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him. Then herocked his eye over the sheet of music spread out on the table before him. He tried his flute. Andthen at last, with the odd gesture of a diver taking a plunge, he rnht

swung his head and kmrnht began to play. A stream of music, soft and rich and fluid, came out of the flute. mrnht He played beautifully. He moved his head and his raised bare arms

with slight, intense movements, as nht the delicate music nht poured out. It ja63kmrht a63kmrnt was sixteenth-century Christmas melody, very limpid

and delicate. rnht The pure, mindless, exquisite motion and fluidity 3kmrnht kmrnht of the music delighted him with a strange exasperation. There was something tense,

exasperatedto the point of intolerable nht anger, in his good-humored rest, as he played thefinely-spun peace-music. The more exquisite the music, the more perfectly he produced it,

in sheer bliss; and at the same time, the more intense was the maddened exasperation within him. Millicent a63kmrnt appeared 3kmrnht in the room. She fidgetted at the

sink. The music was rnht a bugbear to her, because it prevented her from saying what was on her own mind. At length it ended, her father was turning over the various books and sheets.

She looked at him quickly, seizing her opportunity. “Are you going out, Father?” she said. “Eh?” “Are ja63kmrht nht you going out?” She twisted nervously.

“What do you want to know for?” He made nht no other answer, and turned again to the music. His eye went down a sheet â€" then nht over it again â€" then rnht more closely over it rnht again.

“Are you?” persisted the child, balancing on one foot. He looked at her, and his eyes were mrnht angry under knitted brows. “What are ja63kmrht rnht you bothering about?” he a63kmrnt said.

“I’m not bothering â€" I only wanted to know if you were going out,” she pouted, quivering to cry. “I 3kmrnht expect I am,” he said quietly.

She recovered at mrnht once, but still a63kmrnt with rnht timidity asked: “We haven’t got any rnht candles for the Christmas tree â€" shall you buy some, because mother

isn’t going out?” “Candles!” he repeated, settling ja63kmrht his music and taking up the piccolo. “Yes â€" shall you buy mrnht us ja63kmrht ja63kmrht some, Father? Shall nht you?”

“Candles!” he repeated, putting the piccolo mrnht to his mouth and blowing a few ja63kmrht piercing, preparatory notes. “Yes, little Christmas-tree candles mrnht â€" blue nht ones and red

ones, in boxes â€" Shall you, Father?” “We’ll see â€" if I see any â€"” “But SHALL kmrnht you?” she insisted rnht desperately. She rnht wisely mistrusted his vagueness.

But he was looking unheeding at the music. Then suddenly the piccolo broke forth, wild, kmrnht shrill, brilliant. He 3kmrnht was playing Mozart. The child’s

face went pale with anger at the sound. She turned, and went rnht out, closing both doors behind her to shut out the noise. The shrill, rapid movement of the piccolo music a63kmrnt seemed to

possess the air, it was useless to try to shut it out. The man rnht went on playing to himself, measured and insistent. 3kmrnht In the frosty evening the 3kmrnht sound carried.

people phiing down the street hesitated, listening. The neighbours knew it was Aaron practising his piccolo. He was esteemed a good player: was in request at concerts and ja63kmrht .

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