Атлант расправил плечи

           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.Buttheysawonlyahazemadeofthreedifferentkindsoflightmergingtogether:theriver,theskyandthesun.

           Shekneltonarock,leaningforward,tryingtocatchsomehintofthecity,thewindblowingherhairacrosshereyes.Sheglancedbackoverhershoulder—andsawthatFranciscowasnotlookingatthedistance:hestoodlookingather.Itwasanoddglance,intentandunsmiling.