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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 jbi3


swung his head and n5jbi3 began to play. A stream of music, soft and rich and fluid, came out of the flute. 5jbi3 He played beautifully. He moved his head and his raised bare arms



with slight, intense movements, as bi3 the delicate music bi3 poured out. It gyw0n5ji3 yw0n5jb3 was sixteenth-century Christmas melody, very limpid





and delicate. jbi3 The pure, mindless, exquisite motion and fluidity 0n5jbi3 n5jbi3 of the music delighted him with a strange exasperation. There was something tense,


exasperatedto the point of intolerable bi3 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 yw0n5jb3 appeared 0n5jbi3 in the room. She fidgetted at the



sink. The music was jbi3 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 gyw0n5ji3 bi3 you going out?” She twisted nervously.



“What do you want to know for?” He made bi3 no other answer, and turned again to the music. His eye went down a sheet â€" then bi3 over it again â€" then jbi3 more closely over it jbi3 again.





“Are you?” persisted the child, balancing on one foot. He looked at her, and his eyes were 5jbi3 angry under knitted brows. “What are gyw0n5ji3 jbi3 you bothering about?” he yw0n5jb3 said.



“I’m not bothering â€" I only wanted to know if you were going out,” she pouted, quivering to cry. “I 0n5jbi3 expect I am,” he said quietly.


She recovered at 5jbi3 once, but still yw0n5jb3 with jbi3 timidity asked: “We haven’t got any jbi3 candles for the Christmas tree â€" shall you buy some, because mother




isn’t going out?” “Candles!” he repeated, settling gyw0n5ji3 his music and taking up the piccolo. “Yes â€" shall you buy 5jbi3 us gyw0n5ji3 gyw0n5ji3 some, Father? Shall bi3 you?”




“Candles!” he repeated, putting the piccolo 5jbi3 to his mouth and blowing a few gyw0n5ji3 piercing, preparatory notes. “Yes, little Christmas-tree candles 5jbi3 â€" blue bi3 ones and red




ones, in boxes â€" Shall you, Father?” “We’ll see â€" if I see any â€"” “But SHALL n5jbi3 you?” she insisted jbi3 desperately. She jbi3 wisely mistrusted his vagueness.



But he was looking unheeding at the music. Then suddenly the piccolo broke forth, wild, n5jbi3 shrill, brilliant. He 0n5jbi3 was playing Mozart. The child’s


face went pale with anger at the sound. She turned, and went jbi3 out, closing both doors behind her to shut out the noise. The shrill, rapid movement of the piccolo music yw0n5jb3 seemed to



possess the air, it was useless to try to shut it out. The man jbi3 went on playing to himself, measured and insistent. 0n5jbi3 In the frosty evening the 0n5jbi3 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 gyw0n5ji3 .








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