Атлант расправил плечи

           Amongthestories,therewasonesopreposterouslyoutofcharacterthatDagnybelievedittobetrue:nothinginMulligan’snaturecouldhavegivenanyonegroundtoinventit.Itwassaidthatthelastpersontoseehim,onthespringmorningofhisdisappearance,wasanoldwomanwhosoldflowersonaChicagostreetcornerbytheMulliganBank.Sherelatedthathestoppedandboughtabunchoftheyear’sfirstbluebells.Hisfacewasthehappiestfaceshehadeverseen;hehadthelookofayouthstartingoutintoagreat,unobstructedvisionoflifelyingopenbeforehim;themarksofpainandtension,thesedimentofyearsuponahumanface,hadbeenwipedoff,andwhatremainedwasonlyjoyouseagernessandpeace.Hepickeduptheflowersasifonasuddenimpulse,andhewinkedattheoldwoman,asifhehadsomeshiningjoketosharewithher.Hesaid,"DoyouknowhowmuchI’vealwayslovedit—beingalive?"Shestaredathim,bewildered,andhewalkedaway,tossingtheflowerslikeaballinhishand—abroad,straightfigureinasedate,expensive,businessman’sovercoat,goingoffintothedistanceagainstthestraightcliffsofofficebuildingswiththespringsunsparklingontheirwindows.

           "MidasMulliganwasaviciousbastardwithadollarsignstampedonhisheart,"saidLeeHunsacker,inthefumesoftheacridstew.