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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 a47l

swung his head and gna47l began to play. A stream of music, soft and rich and fluid, came out of the flute. na47l He played beautifully. He moved his head and his raised bare arms

with slight, intense movements, as 47l the delicate music 47l poured out. It 8v1bgna7l v1bgna4l was sixteenth-century Christmas melody, very limpid

and delicate. a47l The pure, mindless, exquisite motion and fluidity bgna47l gna47l of the music delighted him with a strange exasperation. There was something tense,

exasperatedto the point of intolerable 47l 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 v1bgna4l appeared bgna47l in the room. She fidgetted at the

sink. The music was a47l 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 8v1bgna7l 47l you going out?” She twisted nervously.

“What do you want to know for?” He made 47l no other answer, and turned again to the music. His eye went down a sheet â€" then 47l over it again â€" then a47l more closely over it a47l again.

“Are you?” persisted the child, balancing on one foot. He looked at her, and his eyes were na47l angry under knitted brows. “What are 8v1bgna7l a47l you bothering about?” he v1bgna4l said.

“I’m not bothering â€" I only wanted to know if you were going out,” she pouted, quivering to cry. “I bgna47l expect I am,” he said quietly.

She recovered at na47l once, but still v1bgna4l with a47l timidity asked: “We haven’t got any a47l candles for the Christmas tree â€" shall you buy some, because mother

isn’t going out?” “Candles!” he repeated, settling 8v1bgna7l his music and taking up the piccolo. “Yes â€" shall you buy na47l us 8v1bgna7l 8v1bgna7l some, Father? Shall 47l you?”

“Candles!” he repeated, putting the piccolo na47l to his mouth and blowing a few 8v1bgna7l piercing, preparatory notes. “Yes, little Christmas-tree candles na47l â€" blue 47l ones and red

ones, in boxes â€" Shall you, Father?” “We’ll see â€" if I see any â€"” “But SHALL gna47l you?” she insisted a47l desperately. She a47l wisely mistrusted his vagueness.

But he was looking unheeding at the music. Then suddenly the piccolo broke forth, wild, gna47l shrill, brilliant. He bgna47l was playing Mozart. The child’s

face went pale with anger at the sound. She turned, and went a47l out, closing both doors behind her to shut out the noise. The shrill, rapid movement of the piccolo music v1bgna4l seemed to

possess the air, it was useless to try to shut it out. The man a47l went on playing to himself, measured and insistent. bgna47l In the frosty evening the bgna47l 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 8v1bgna7l .


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