Атлант расправил плечи
Anti-Life
Afterawhile,heleapedtohisfeet,toreoffhiscoatandthrewitacrosstheroom.Hereachedforacigarette,butsnappeditinhalfandflungitatapaintingoverthefireplace.
HenoticedavaseofVenetianglass—amuseumpiece,centuriesold,withanintricatesystemofblueandgoldarteriestwistingthroughitstransparentbody.Heseizeditandflungitatthewall;itburstintoarainofglassasthinasashatteredlightbulb.
Hehadboughtthatvaseforthesatisfactionofthinkingofalltheconnoisseurswhocouldnotaffordit.Nowheexperiencedthesatisfactionofarevengeuponthecenturieswhichhadprizedit—andthesatisfactionofthinkingthatthereweremillionsofdesperatefamilies,anyoneofwhomcouldhavelivedforayearonthepriceofthatvase.
Hekickedoffhisshoes,andfellbackonthedavenport,lettinghisstockingfeetdangleinmid-air.
Thesoundofthedoorbellstartledhim:itseemedtomatchhismood.
Itwasthekindofbrusque,demanding,impatientsnapofsoundhewouldhaveproducedifhewerenowjabbinghisfingeratsomeone’sdoorbell.
Helistenedtothebutler’ssteps,promisinghimselfthepleasureofrefusingadmittancetowhoeverwasseekingit.Inamoment,heheardtheknockathisdoorandthebutlerenteredtoannounce,"Mrs.
Reardentoseeyou,sir."
"What?...Oh...
