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dimanche, novembre 27, 2016

Don't Wonder What Might Have Been. Meet Russian Women Today.

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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 f137

swung his head and 5pf137 began to play. A stream of music, soft and rich and fluid, came out of the flute. pf137 He played beautifully. He moved his head and his raised bare arms

with slight, intense movements, as 137 the delicate music 137 poured out. It nu2s5pf37 u2s5pf17 was sixteenth-century Christmas melody, very limpid

and delicate. f137 The pure, mindless, exquisite motion and fluidity s5pf137 5pf137 of the music delighted him with a strange exasperation. There was something tense,

exasperatedto the point of intolerable 137 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 u2s5pf17 appeared s5pf137 in the room. She fidgetted at the

sink. The music was f137 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 nu2s5pf37 137 you going out?” She twisted nervously.

“What do you want to know for?” He made 137 no other answer, and turned again to the music. His eye went down a sheet â€" then 137 over it again â€" then f137 more closely over it f137 again.

“Are you?” persisted the child, balancing on one foot. He looked at her, and his eyes were pf137 angry under knitted brows. “What are nu2s5pf37 f137 you bothering about?” he u2s5pf17 said.

“I’m not bothering â€" I only wanted to know if you were going out,” she pouted, quivering to cry. “I s5pf137 expect I am,” he said quietly.

She recovered at pf137 once, but still u2s5pf17 with f137 timidity asked: “We haven’t got any f137 candles for the Christmas tree â€" shall you buy some, because mother

isn’t going out?” “Candles!” he repeated, settling nu2s5pf37 his music and taking up the piccolo. “Yes â€" shall you buy pf137 us nu2s5pf37 nu2s5pf37 some, Father? Shall 137 you?”

“Candles!” he repeated, putting the piccolo pf137 to his mouth and blowing a few nu2s5pf37 piercing, preparatory notes. “Yes, little Christmas-tree candles pf137 â€" blue 137 ones and red

ones, in boxes â€" Shall you, Father?” “We’ll see â€" if I see any â€"” “But SHALL 5pf137 you?” she insisted f137 desperately. She f137 wisely mistrusted his vagueness.

But he was looking unheeding at the music. Then suddenly the piccolo broke forth, wild, 5pf137 shrill, brilliant. He s5pf137 was playing Mozart. The child’s

face went pale with anger at the sound. She turned, and went f137 out, closing both doors behind her to shut out the noise. The shrill, rapid movement of the piccolo music u2s5pf17 seemed to

possess the air, it was useless to try to shut it out. The man f137 went on playing to himself, measured and insistent. s5pf137 In the frosty evening the s5pf137 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 nu2s5pf37 .

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