Атлант расправил плечи

           Sippinghisdrink,heglancedatthedoorofhisbedroomandthoughtoftheusualendingforanadventureofthiskind.Hethoughtthatitwouldbeeasy:thegirlwastooawedtoresist.Hesawthereddish-bronzesparkleofherhair—asshesat,headbent,underalight—andawedgeofsmooth,glowingskinonhershoulder.Helookedaway.Whybother?—shethought.

           Thehintofdesirethathefelt,wasnomorethanasenseofphysicaldiscomfort.Thesharpestimpulseinhismind,nagginghimtoaction,wasnotthethoughtofthegirl,butofallthemenwhowouldnotpassupanopportunityofthiskind.HeadmittedtohimselfthatshewasamuchbetterpersonthanBettyPope,perhapsthebestpersoneverofferedtohim.Theadmissionlefthimindifferent.HefeltnomorethanhehadfeltforBettyPope.Hefeltnothing.Theprospectofexperiencingpleasurewasnotworththeeffort;hehadnodesiretoexperiencepleasure.

           "It’sgettinglate,"hesaid."Wheredoyoulive?LetmegiveyouanotherdrinkandthenI’lltakeyouhome."

           Whenhesaidgood-byetoheratthedoorofamiserableroominghouseinaslumneighborhood,shehesitated,fightingnottoaskaquestionwhichshedesperatelywishedtoaskhim,"WillI..."shebegan,andstopped.

           "What?"

           "No,nothing,nothing!"

           Heknewthatthequestionwas:"WillIseeyouagain?"Itgavehimpleasurenottoanswer,eventhoughheknewthatshewould.