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samedi, décembre 24, 2016

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voices of boys, pouring out the dregs of carol-singing. â€Å"While Shep-ep-ep-ep-herds watched —” He held his soapy brush a2tw9cuks suspended for a minute. They



called this singing! His mind flitted back to earlycarol music. Then again he heard the vocal 9cu7ks violence outside. â€Å"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 a2tw9cuks resumed. Almost immediately the door opened, 7ks 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, cu7ks 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 9cu7ks



tiles. The wash-copper of red bricks was very red, the w9cu7ks mangle with its put-up board was white-scrubbed, the American oil-cloth on the table had a hi 7ks pattern, there was cu7ks a



warm fire, the water in the boiler u7ks 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 u7ks 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 u7ks he had w9cu7ks built for his 2tw9cu7s 7ks marriage twelve years ago, 9cu7ks the changeless pleasantness of it all seemed unthinkable.




It prevented his thinking. When he went into the 7ks middle 2tw9cu7s room to comb his hair he found the Christmas tree sparkling, his wife was making pastry at w9cu7ks 2tw9cu7s the table, the





baby was sitting up propped u7ks in cushions. â€Å"Father,” said Millicent, approaching a2tw9cuks him with a flat blue-and-white angel of cotton- wool, and two ends of cotton —â€Å"tie the angel at the top. ”





â€Å"Tie it at the top?” he said, looking down. â€Å"Yes. At the very top — because it’s u7ks 9cu7ks just come down from the sky.” â€Å"Ay my word!” he laughed. And he tied cu7ks the w9cu7ks angel.


Coming downstairs after changing he went into the icy cold parlour, and took his music and a small handbag. With 2tw9cu7s 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 a2tw9cuks under the


gas-jet of the back kitchen, looking through his music. Then he opened the 9cu7ks bag, in which were sections of a 2tw9cu7s flute and a piccolo. He took out the flute, and adjusted it. As he


sat he was physically aware cu7ks 2tw9cu7s of the sounds of the night: the bubbling of water in the boiler, the faint sound 9cu7ks of the gas, the sudden crying of the baby in the next room, a2tw9cuks then



noises outside, w9cu7ks 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 7ks in a stream of cold air, which was grateful 9cu7ks to .





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