Атлант расправил плечи
By our love
Shewasbarelyawareofafaintnoisethatcamethroughthemusic,likethescratchingofanoldrecord.Thefirstthingtoreachherconsciousnesswasthesuddenjerkofherownhandflingingthecigaretteaside.Itcameinthesameinstantastherealizationthatthenoisewasgrowingloaderandthatitwasthesoundofamotor.Thensheknewthatshehadnotadmittedtoherselfhowmuchshehadwantedtohearthatsound,howdesperatelyshehadwaitedforHankRearden.
Sheheardherownchuckle—itwashumbly,cautiouslylow,asifnottodisturbthedroneofrevolvingmetalwhichwasnowtheunmistakablesoundofacarrisingupthemountainroad.
Shecouldnotseetheroad—thesmallstretchunderthearchofbranchesatthefootofthehillwasheronlyviewofit—butshewatchedthecar’sascentbythegrowing,imperiousstrainofthemotoragainstthegradesandthescreechofthetiresoncurves.
Thecarstoppedunderthearchofbranches.Shedidnotrecognizeit—itwasnottheblackHammond,butalong,grayconvertible.Shesawthedriverstepout:itwasamanwhosepresenceherecouldnotbepossible.ItwasFranciscod’Anconia.
Theshockshefeltwasnotdisappointment,itwasmorelikethesensationthatdisappointmentwouldnowbeirrelevant.Itwaseagernessandanodd,solemnstillness,thesuddencertaintythatshewasfacingtheapproachofsomethingunknownandofthegravestimportance.
