Атлант расправил плечи
The Sacred and the Profane
"Nineteen."
Whenhelookedatherinthelightsofhislivingroom,hethoughtthatshe’dhaveagoodfigureifshe’deatafewmeals;sheseemedtoothinfortheheightandstructureofherbones.Sheworeatight,shabbylittleblackdress,whichshehadtriedtocamouflagebythegaudyplasticbraceletstinklingonherwrist.Shestoodlookingathisroomasifitwereamuseumwhereshemusttouchnothingandreverentlymemorizeeverything.
"What’syourname?"heasked.
"CherrylBrooks."
"Well,sitdown."
Hemixedthedrinksinsilence,whileshewaitedobediently,sittingontheedgeofanarmchair.Whenhehandedheraglass,sheswalloweddutifullyafewtimes,thenheldtheglassclutchedinherhand.Heknewthatshedidnottastewhatshewasdrinking,didnotnoticeit,hadnotimetocare.
Hetookagulpofhisdrinkandputtheglassdownwithirritation:hedidnotfeellikedrinking,either.Hepacedtheroomsullenly,knowingthathereyesfollowedhim,enjoyingtheknowledge,enjoyingthesenseoftremendoussignificancewhichhismovements,hiscufflinks,hisshoelaces,hislampshadesandashtraysacquiredinthatgentle,unquestioningglance.
"Mr.Taggart,whatisitthatmakesyousounhappy?"
"WhyshouldyoucarewhetherIamornot?"
"Because...
