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vendredi, décembre 02, 2016

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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 5nu6


swung his head and kj5nu6 began to play. A stream of music, soft and rich and fluid, came out of the flute. j5nu6 He played beautifully. He moved his head and his raised bare arms



with slight, intense movements, as nu6 the delicate music nu6 poured out. It do4ekj5u6 o4ekj5n6 was sixteenth-century Christmas melody, very limpid





and delicate. 5nu6 The pure, mindless, exquisite motion and fluidity ekj5nu6 kj5nu6 of the music delighted him with a strange exasperation. There was something tense,


exasperatedto the point of intolerable nu6 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 o4ekj5n6 appeared ekj5nu6 in the room. She fidgetted at the



sink. The music was 5nu6 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 do4ekj5u6 nu6 you going out?” She twisted nervously.



“What do you want to know for?” He made nu6 no other answer, and turned again to the music. His eye went down a sheet â€" then nu6 over it again â€" then 5nu6 more closely over it 5nu6 again.





“Are you?” persisted the child, balancing on one foot. He looked at her, and his eyes were j5nu6 angry under knitted brows. “What are do4ekj5u6 5nu6 you bothering about?” he o4ekj5n6 said.



“I’m not bothering â€" I only wanted to know if you were going out,” she pouted, quivering to cry. “I ekj5nu6 expect I am,” he said quietly.


She recovered at j5nu6 once, but still o4ekj5n6 with 5nu6 timidity asked: “We haven’t got any 5nu6 candles for the Christmas tree â€" shall you buy some, because mother




isn’t going out?” “Candles!” he repeated, settling do4ekj5u6 his music and taking up the piccolo. “Yes â€" shall you buy j5nu6 us do4ekj5u6 do4ekj5u6 some, Father? Shall nu6 you?”




“Candles!” he repeated, putting the piccolo j5nu6 to his mouth and blowing a few do4ekj5u6 piercing, preparatory notes. “Yes, little Christmas-tree candles j5nu6 â€" blue nu6 ones and red




ones, in boxes â€" Shall you, Father?” “We’ll see â€" if I see any â€"” “But SHALL kj5nu6 you?” she insisted 5nu6 desperately. She 5nu6 wisely mistrusted his vagueness.



But he was looking unheeding at the music. Then suddenly the piccolo broke forth, wild, kj5nu6 shrill, brilliant. He ekj5nu6 was playing Mozart. The child’s


face went pale with anger at the sound. She turned, and went 5nu6 out, closing both doors behind her to shut out the noise. The shrill, rapid movement of the piccolo music o4ekj5n6 seemed to



possess the air, it was useless to try to shut it out. The man 5nu6 went on playing to himself, measured and insistent. ekj5nu6 In the frosty evening the ekj5nu6 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 do4ekj5u6 .








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