Атлант расправил плечи

           Shesnappedthequestionathisface,asifhopingtocatchhimunprepared:"That’stheFifthConcertobyRichardHalley,isn’tit?"

           "Yes."

           "Whendidhewriteit?"

           "Whydon’tyouaskhimthatinperson?"

           "Ishehere?"

           "It’shewho’splayingit.That’shishouse."

           "Oh...!"

           "You’llmeethim,later.He’llbegladtospeaktoyou.Heknowsthathisworksaretheonlyrecordsyouliketoplay,intheevening,whenyouarealone."

           "Howdoesheknowthat?"

           "Itoldhim."

           Thelookonherfacewaslikeaquestionthatwouldhavebegunwith"Howinhell...?"—butshesawthelookofhiseyes,andshelaughed,herlaughtergivingsoundtothemeaningofhisglance.

           Shecouldnotquestionanything,shethought,shecouldnotdoubt,notnow—notwiththesoundofthatmusicrisingtriumphantlythroughthesun-drenchedleaves,themusicofrelease,ofdeliverance,playedasitwasintendedtobeplayed,ashermindhadstruggledtohearitinarockingcoachthroughthebeatofwoundedwheels—itwasthisthathermindhadseeninthesounds,thatnight—thisvalleyandthemorningsunand—Andthenshegasped,becausethetrailhadturnedandfromtheheightofanopenledgeshesawthetownonthefloorofthevalley.