At five-fifteen we went to the front attic, where we stayed until six.
There was a beautiful Mozart concert on the radio from six to seven-fifteen; I especially enjoyed the Kleine Nachtmusik.
I can hardly bear to listen in the kitchen, since beautiful music stirs me to the very depths of my soul.
Sunday evening Peter couldn't take his bath, because the washtub was down in the office kitchen, filled with laundry.
The two of us went to the front attic together, and in order to be able to sit comfortably,
I took along the only cushion I could find in my room. We seated ourselves on a packing crate.
Since both the crate and the cushion were very narrow, we were sitting quite close,
leaning against two other crates; Mouschi kept us company, so we weren't without a chaperon.
Suddenly, at a quarter to nine, Mr. van Daan whistled and asked if we had Mr. Dussel's cushion.
We jumped up and went downstairs with the cushion, the cat and Mr. van Daan.
This cushion was the source of much misery. Dussel was angry because I'd taken the one he uses as a pillow,
and he was afraid it might be covered with fleas; he had the entire house in an uproar because of this one cushion.
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