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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 hben


swung his head and i5hben began to play. A stream of music, soft and rich and fluid, came out of the flute. 5hben He played beautifully. He moved his head and his raised bare arms



with slight, intense movements, as ben the delicate music ben poured out. It oul9i5hen ul9i5hbn was sixteenth-century Christmas melody, very limpid





and delicate. hben The pure, mindless, exquisite motion and fluidity 9i5hben i5hben of the music delighted him with a strange exasperation. There was something tense,


exasperatedto the point of intolerable ben 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 ul9i5hbn appeared 9i5hben in the room. She fidgetted at the



sink. The music was hben 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 oul9i5hen ben you going out?” She twisted nervously.



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





“Are you?” persisted the child, balancing on one foot. He looked at her, and his eyes were 5hben angry under knitted brows. “What are oul9i5hen hben you bothering about?” he ul9i5hbn said.



“I’m not bothering â€" I only wanted to know if you were going out,” she pouted, quivering to cry. “I 9i5hben expect I am,” he said quietly.


She recovered at 5hben once, but still ul9i5hbn with hben timidity asked: “We haven’t got any hben candles for the Christmas tree â€" shall you buy some, because mother




isn’t going out?” “Candles!” he repeated, settling oul9i5hen his music and taking up the piccolo. “Yes â€" shall you buy 5hben us oul9i5hen oul9i5hen some, Father? Shall ben you?”




“Candles!” he repeated, putting the piccolo 5hben to his mouth and blowing a few oul9i5hen piercing, preparatory notes. “Yes, little Christmas-tree candles 5hben â€" blue ben ones and red




ones, in boxes â€" Shall you, Father?” “We’ll see â€" if I see any â€"” “But SHALL i5hben you?” she insisted hben desperately. She hben wisely mistrusted his vagueness.



But he was looking unheeding at the music. Then suddenly the piccolo broke forth, wild, i5hben shrill, brilliant. He 9i5hben was playing Mozart. The child’s


face went pale with anger at the sound. She turned, and went hben out, closing both doors behind her to shut out the noise. The shrill, rapid movement of the piccolo music ul9i5hbn seemed to



possess the air, it was useless to try to shut it out. The man hben went on playing to himself, measured and insistent. 9i5hben In the frosty evening the 9i5hben 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 oul9i5hen .








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