Атлант расправил плечи

           Thenhestartedbackforhisoffice,onceagainafigurewithanexpressionlessface.

           ItwaslatewhenHankReardenlefthisofficethatnighttowalkfromhismillstohishouse.Itwasawalkofsomemilesthroughemptycountry,buthehadfeltlikedoingit,withoutconsciousreason.

           Hewalked,keepingonehandinhispocket,hisfingersclosedaboutabracelet.ItwasmadeofReardenMetal,intheshapeofachain.Hisfingersmoved,feelingitstextureonceinawhile.Ithadtakentenyearstomakethatbracelet.Tenyears,hethought,isalongtime.

           Theroadwasdark,edgedwithtrees.Lookingup,hecouldseeafewleavesagainstthestars;theleavesweretwistedanddry,readytofall.Thereweredistantlightsinthewindowsofhousesscatteredthroughthecountryside;butthelightsmadetheroadseemlonelier.

           Heneverfeltlonelinessexceptwhenhewashappy.Heturned,onceinawhile,tolookbackattheredglowoftheskyoverthemills.

           Hedidnotthinkofthetenyears.Whatremainedofthemtonightwasonlyafeelingwhichhecouldnotname,exceptthatitwasquietandsolemn.Thefeelingwasasum,andhedidnothavetocountagainthepartsthathadgonetomakeit.Buttheparts,unrecalled,werethere,withinthefeeling.