Meet a Lovely Russian Woman 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 dg39 swung his head and fndg39 began to play. A stream of music, soft and rich and fluid, came out of the flute. ndg39 He played beautifully. He moved his head and his raised bare arms with slight, intense movements, as g39 the delicate music g39 poured out. It ar0hfnd39 r0hfndg9 was sixteenth-century Christmas melody, very limpid and delicate. dg39 The pure, mindless, exquisite motion and fluidity hfndg39 fndg39 of the music delighted him with a strange exasperation. There was something tense, exasperatedto the point of intolerable g39 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 r0hfndg9 appeared hfndg39 in the room. She fidgetted at the sink. The music was dg39 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 ar0hfnd39 g39 you going out?” She twisted nervously. “What do you want to know for?” He made g39 no other answer, and turned again to the music. His eye went down a sheet â€" then g39 over it again â€" then dg39 more closely over it dg39 again. “Are you?” persisted the child, balancing on one foot. He looked at her, and his eyes were ndg39 angry under knitted brows. “What are ar0hfnd39 dg39 you bothering about?” he r0hfndg9 said. “I’m not bothering â€" I only wanted to know if you were going out,” she pouted, quivering to cry. “I hfndg39 expect I am,” he said quietly. She recovered at ndg39 once, but still r0hfndg9 with dg39 timidity asked: “We haven’t got any dg39 candles for the Christmas tree â€" shall you buy some, because mother isn’t going out?” “Candles!” he repeated, settling ar0hfnd39 his music and taking up the piccolo. “Yes â€" shall you buy ndg39 us ar0hfnd39 ar0hfnd39 some, Father? Shall g39 you?” “Candles!” he repeated, putting the piccolo ndg39 to his mouth and blowing a few ar0hfnd39 piercing, preparatory notes. “Yes, little Christmas-tree candles ndg39 â€" blue g39 ones and red ones, in boxes â€" Shall you, Father?” “We’ll see â€" if I see any â€"” “But SHALL fndg39 you?” she insisted dg39 desperately. She dg39 wisely mistrusted his vagueness. But he was looking unheeding at the music. Then suddenly the piccolo broke forth, wild, fndg39 shrill, brilliant. He hfndg39 was playing Mozart. The child’s face went pale with anger at the sound. She turned, and went dg39 out, closing both doors behind her to shut out the noise. The shrill, rapid movement of the piccolo music r0hfndg9 seemed to possess the air, it was useless to try to shut it out. The man dg39 went on playing to himself, measured and insistent. hfndg39 In the frosty evening the hfndg39 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 ar0hfnd39 .