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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 xhfo

swung his head and 6ixhfo began to play. A stream of music, soft and rich and fluid, came out of the flute. ixhfo He played beautifully. He moved his head and his raised bare arms

with slight, intense movements, as hfo the delicate music hfo poured out. It vc4g6ixfo c4g6ixho was sixteenth-century Christmas melody, very limpid

and delicate. xhfo The pure, mindless, exquisite motion and fluidity g6ixhfo 6ixhfo of the music delighted him with a strange exasperation. There was something tense,

exasperatedto the point of intolerable hfo 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 c4g6ixho appeared g6ixhfo in the room. She fidgetted at the

sink. The music was xhfo 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 vc4g6ixfo hfo you going out?” She twisted nervously.

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

“Are you?” persisted the child, balancing on one foot. He looked at her, and his eyes were ixhfo angry under knitted brows. “What are vc4g6ixfo xhfo you bothering about?” he c4g6ixho said.

“I’m not bothering â€" I only wanted to know if you were going out,” she pouted, quivering to cry. “I g6ixhfo expect I am,” he said quietly.

She recovered at ixhfo once, but still c4g6ixho with xhfo timidity asked: “We haven’t got any xhfo candles for the Christmas tree â€" shall you buy some, because mother

isn’t going out?” “Candles!” he repeated, settling vc4g6ixfo his music and taking up the piccolo. “Yes â€" shall you buy ixhfo us vc4g6ixfo vc4g6ixfo some, Father? Shall hfo you?”

“Candles!” he repeated, putting the piccolo ixhfo to his mouth and blowing a few vc4g6ixfo piercing, preparatory notes. “Yes, little Christmas-tree candles ixhfo â€" blue hfo ones and red

ones, in boxes â€" Shall you, Father?” “We’ll see â€" if I see any â€"” “But SHALL 6ixhfo you?” she insisted xhfo desperately. She xhfo wisely mistrusted his vagueness.

But he was looking unheeding at the music. Then suddenly the piccolo broke forth, wild, 6ixhfo shrill, brilliant. He g6ixhfo was playing Mozart. The child’s

face went pale with anger at the sound. She turned, and went xhfo out, closing both doors behind her to shut out the noise. The shrill, rapid movement of the piccolo music c4g6ixho seemed to

possess the air, it was useless to try to shut it out. The man xhfo went on playing to himself, measured and insistent. g6ixhfo In the frosty evening the g6ixhfo 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 vc4g6ixfo .

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