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vendredi, novembre 25, 2016

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voices of boys, pouring out the dregs of carol-singing. “While Shep-ep-ep-ep-herds watched â€"” He held his soapy brush jkrq4ua3s suspended for a minute. They



called this singing! His mind flitted back to earlycarol music. Then again he heard the vocal 4uax3s violence outside. “Aren’t you off there!” he called out, in masculine


menace. The noise stopped, there was a scuffle. but the hit returned and the voices jkrq4ua3s resumed. Almost immediately the door opened, x3s boys were heard muttering among themselves.



Millicent had given them a penny. hit scraped on the yard, then went thudding along the side of the house, to the street. To Aaron Sisson, uax3s this was home, this was Christmas: the



unspeakably familiar. The war over, nothing was changed. Yet everything changed. The scullery in which he stood was painted green, quite fresh, very clean, the floor was red 4uax3s



tiles. The wash-copper of red bricks was very red, the q4uax3s mangle with its put-up board was white-scrubbed, the American oil-cloth on the table had a hi x3s pattern, there was uax3s a



warm fire, the water in the boiler ax3s hissed faintly. Andin front of him, beneath him as he leaned forward shaving, a drop of water fell with strange, incalculable rhythm from the


bright brhi tap into the white enamelled ax3s bowl, which was now half full of pure, quivering water. The war was over, and everything just the same. The acute familiarity of this


house, which ax3s he had q4uax3s built for his krq4uaxs x3s marriage twelve years ago, 4uax3s the changeless pleasantness of it all seemed unthinkable.




It prevented his thinking. When he went into the x3s middle krq4uaxs room to comb his hair he found the Christmas tree sparkling, his wife was making pastry at q4uax3s krq4uaxs the table, the





baby was sitting up propped ax3s in cushions. “Father,” said Millicent, approaching jkrq4ua3s him with a flat blue-and-white angel of cotton- wool, and two ends of cotton â€"“tie the angel at the top. ”





“Tie it at the top?” he said, looking down. “Yes. At the very top â€" because it’s ax3s 4uax3s just come down from the sky.” “Ay my word!” he laughed. And he tied uax3s the q4uax3s angel.


Coming downstairs after changing he went into the icy cold parlour, and took his music and a small handbag. With krq4uaxs this he retreated again to the



back kitchen. He was still in trousers and shirt and slippers: but now it was a clean white shirt, and his best black trousers, and new pink and white braces. He sat jkrq4ua3s under the


gas-jet of the back kitchen, looking through his music. Then he opened the 4uax3s bag, in which were sections of a krq4uaxs flute and a piccolo. He took out the flute, and adjusted it. As he


sat he was physically aware uax3s krq4uaxs of the sounds of the night: the bubbling of water in the boiler, the faint sound 4uax3s of the gas, the sudden crying of the baby in the next room, jkrq4ua3s then



noises outside, q4uax3s distant boys shouting, distant rags of carols, fragments of voices of men. The whole country was roused and excited.


The little room was hot. Aaron rose and opened a square ventilator over the copper, letting x3s in a stream of cold air, which was grateful 4uax3s to .





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