A Gorgeous Russian Bride Could Be Yours

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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 blck swung his head and 3vblck began to play. A stream of music, soft and rich and fluid, came out of the flute. vblck He played beautifully. He moved his head and his raised bare arms with slight, intense movements, as lck the delicate music lck poured out. It 9neo3vbck neo3vblk was sixteenth-century Christmas melody, very limpid and delicate. blck The pure, mindless, exquisite motion and fluidity o3vblck 3vblck of the music delighted him with a strange exasperation. There was something tense, exasperatedto the point of intolerable lck 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 neo3vblk appeared o3vblck in the room. She fidgetted at the sink. The music was blck 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 9neo3vbck lck you going out?” She twisted nervously. “What do you want to know for?” He made lck no other answer, and turned again to the music. His eye went down a sheet â€" then lck over it again â€" then blck more closely over it blck again. “Are you?” persisted the child, balancing on one foot. He looked at her, and his eyes were vblck angry under knitted brows. “What are 9neo3vbck blck you bothering about?” he neo3vblk said. “I’m not bothering â€" I only wanted to know if you were going out,” she pouted, quivering to cry. “I o3vblck expect I am,” he said quietly. She recovered at vblck once, but still neo3vblk with blck timidity asked: “We haven’t got any blck candles for the Christmas tree â€" shall you buy some, because mother isn’t going out?” “Candles!” he repeated, settling 9neo3vbck his music and taking up the piccolo. “Yes â€" shall you buy vblck us 9neo3vbck 9neo3vbck some, Father? Shall lck you?” “Candles!” he repeated, putting the piccolo vblck to his mouth and blowing a few 9neo3vbck piercing, preparatory notes. “Yes, little Christmas-tree candles vblck â€" blue lck ones and red ones, in boxes â€" Shall you, Father?” “We’ll see â€" if I see any â€"” “But SHALL 3vblck you?” she insisted blck desperately. She blck wisely mistrusted his vagueness. But he was looking unheeding at the music. Then suddenly the piccolo broke forth, wild, 3vblck shrill, brilliant. He o3vblck was playing Mozart. The child’s face went pale with anger at the sound. She turned, and went blck out, closing both doors behind her to shut out the noise. The shrill, rapid movement of the piccolo music neo3vblk seemed to possess the air, it was useless to try to shut it out. The man blck went on playing to himself, measured and insistent. o3vblck In the frosty evening the o3vblck 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 9neo3vbck .