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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 6tk3


swung his head and ej6tk3 began to play. A stream of music, soft and rich and fluid, came out of the flute. j6tk3 He played beautifully. He moved his head and his raised bare arms



with slight, intense movements, as tk3 the delicate music tk3 poured out. It xaypej6k3 aypej6t3 was sixteenth-century Christmas melody, very limpid





and delicate. 6tk3 The pure, mindless, exquisite motion and fluidity pej6tk3 ej6tk3 of the music delighted him with a strange exasperation. There was something tense,


exasperatedto the point of intolerable tk3 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 aypej6t3 appeared pej6tk3 in the room. She fidgetted at the



sink. The music was 6tk3 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 xaypej6k3 tk3 you going out?” She twisted nervously.



“What do you want to know for?” He made tk3 no other answer, and turned again to the music. His eye went down a sheet â€" then tk3 over it again â€" then 6tk3 more closely over it 6tk3 again.





“Are you?” persisted the child, balancing on one foot. He looked at her, and his eyes were j6tk3 angry under knitted brows. “What are xaypej6k3 6tk3 you bothering about?” he aypej6t3 said.



“I’m not bothering â€" I only wanted to know if you were going out,” she pouted, quivering to cry. “I pej6tk3 expect I am,” he said quietly.


She recovered at j6tk3 once, but still aypej6t3 with 6tk3 timidity asked: “We haven’t got any 6tk3 candles for the Christmas tree â€" shall you buy some, because mother




isn’t going out?” “Candles!” he repeated, settling xaypej6k3 his music and taking up the piccolo. “Yes â€" shall you buy j6tk3 us xaypej6k3 xaypej6k3 some, Father? Shall tk3 you?”




“Candles!” he repeated, putting the piccolo j6tk3 to his mouth and blowing a few xaypej6k3 piercing, preparatory notes. “Yes, little Christmas-tree candles j6tk3 â€" blue tk3 ones and red




ones, in boxes â€" Shall you, Father?” “We’ll see â€" if I see any â€"” “But SHALL ej6tk3 you?” she insisted 6tk3 desperately. She 6tk3 wisely mistrusted his vagueness.



But he was looking unheeding at the music. Then suddenly the piccolo broke forth, wild, ej6tk3 shrill, brilliant. He pej6tk3 was playing Mozart. The child’s


face went pale with anger at the sound. She turned, and went 6tk3 out, closing both doors behind her to shut out the noise. The shrill, rapid movement of the piccolo music aypej6t3 seemed to



possess the air, it was useless to try to shut it out. The man 6tk3 went on playing to himself, measured and insistent. pej6tk3 In the frosty evening the pej6tk3 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 xaypej6k3 .








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