Атлант расправил плечи
Wyatt’s torch
Hefeltadimanger,likeavoicehetriedtochoke,avoicecryinginrevulsion:WhyshouldIdealwithherrotten,twistedlying?—whyshouldIaccepttortureforthesakeofpity?—whyisitIwhoshouldhavetotakethehopelessburdenoftryingtospareafeelingshewon’tadmit,afeelingIcan’tknoworunderstandortrytoguess?—ifshelovesme,whydoesn’tthedamncowardsaysoandletusbothfaceitintheopen?Heheardanother,loudervoice,sayingevenly:Don’tswitchtheblametoher,that’stheoldesttrickofallcowards—you’reguilty—nomatterwhatshedoes,it’snothingcomparedtoyourguilt—she’sright—itmakesyousick,doesn’tit,toknowit’sshewho’sright?—letitmakeyousick,youdamnadulterer—it’sshewho’sright!
"Whatwouldmakeyouhappy,Lillian?"heasked.Hisvoicewastoneless.
Shesmiled,leaningbackinherchair,relaxing;shehadbeenwatchinghisfaceintently.
"Oh,dear!"shesaid,asinboredamusement."That’stheshysterquestion.Theloophole.Theescapeclause."
Shegotup,lettingherarmsfallwithashrug,stretchingherbodyinalimp,gracefulgestureofhelplessness.
"Whatwouldmakemehappy,Henry?Thatiswhatyououghttotellme.Thatiswhatyoushouldhavediscoveredforme.Idon’tknow.Youweretocreateitandofferittome.Thatwasyourtrust,yourobligation,yourresponsibility.Butyouwon’tbethefirstmantodefaultonthatpromise.
