He sat under the gas-jet of the back kitchen, looking through his music.

Then he opened the bag, in which were sections of a flute and a piccolo.

He took out the flute, and adjusted it.

As he sat he was physically aware of the sounds of the night: the bubbling of water in the boiler, the faint sound of the gas, the sudden crying of the baby in the next room, then noises outside, distant boys shouting, distant rags of carols, fragments of voices of men.

The whole country was roused and excited.
The little room was hot.