Атлант расправил плечи

           Bothofthemsmiledderisively.ButFranciscoseemedtolaughatthingsbecausehesawsomethingmuchgreater.Jimlaughedasifhewantedtoletnothingremaingreat.

           ShenoticedtheparticularqualityofFrancisco’ssmileagain,onenight,whenshesatwithhimandEddieatabonfiretheyhadbuiltinthewoods.Theglowofthefireenclosedthemwithinafenceofbroken,movingstripsthatheldpiecesoftreetrunks,branchesanddistantstars.Shefeltasiftherewerenothingbeyondthatfence,nothingbutblackemptiness,withthehintofsomebreath-stopping,frighteningpromise...likethefuture.Butthefuture,shethought,wouldbelikeFrancisco’ssmile,therewasthekeytoit,theadvancewarningofitsnature-inhisfaceinthefirelightunderthepinebranches—andsuddenlyshefeltanunbearablehappiness,unbearablebecauseitwastoofullandshehadnowaytoexpressit.SheglancedatEddie.HewaslookingatFrancisco.Insomequietwayofhisown,Eddiefeltasshedid.

           "WhydoyoulikeFrancisco?"sheaskedhimweekslater,whenFranciscowasgone.

           Eddielookedastonished;ithadneveroccurredtohimthatthefeelingcouldbequestioned.Hesaid,"Hemakesmefeelsafe."

           Shesaid,"Hemakesmeexpectexcitementanddanger."

           Franciscowassixteen,nextsummer,thedaywhenshestoodalonewithhimonthesummitofacliffbytheriver,theirshortsandshirtstornintheirclimbtothetop.TheystoodlookingdowntheHudson;theyhadheardthatoncleardaysonecouldseeNewYorkinthedistance.