Атлант расправил плечи

           "ButIlookatpeopleandtheyseemtobemadeofnothingbutpain.He’snot.You’renot.Thatterriblehopelessnessthat’sallaroundus,Iloseitonlyinhispresence.Andhere.

           Nowhereelse."

           Shecamebacktohimandslippeddowntositathisfeet,pressingherfacetohisknees."Hank,westillhavesomuchaheadofus...andsomuchrightnow..."

           Helookedattheshapeofpalebluesilkhuddledagainsttheblackofhisclothes—hebentdowntoher—hesaid,hisvoicelow,"Dagny...thethingsIsaidtoyouthatmorninginEllisWyatt’shouse...IthinkIwaslyingtomyself."

           "Iknowit."

           Throughagraydrizzleofrain,thecalendarabovetheroofssaid:September3,andaclockonanothertowersaid:10:40,asReardenrodebacktotheWayne-FalklandHotel.Thecab’sradiowasspittingoutshrillythesoundsofapanic-tingedvoiceannouncingthecrashofd’AnconiaCopper.

           Reardenleanedwearilyagainsttheseat:thedisasterseemedtobenomorethanastalenewsstoryreadlongago.Hefeltnothing,exceptanuncomfortablesenseofimproprietyatfindinghimselfoutinthemorningstreets,dressedineveningclothes.Hefeltnodesiretoreturnfromtheworldhehadlefttotheworldhesawdrizzlingpastthewindowsofthetaxi.

           Heturnedthekeyinthedoorofhishotelsuite,hopingtogetbacktoadeskasfastaspossibleandhavetoseenothingaroundhim.