Атлант расправил плечи
The Sanction of the Victim
Herosetohisfeet,withachuckleofamusedindignation;hewasacting,hethought,likeawomanwhowaitsforatelephonecallandfightsagainstthetemptationtoendthetorturebymakingthefirstmove.Therewasnoreason,hethought,whyhecouldnotgotoFranciscod’Anconia,ifthatwaswhathewanted.Yetwhenhetoldhimselfthathewould,hefeltsomedangerouselementofsurrenderintheintensityofhisownrelief.
Hemadeasteptowardthephone,tocallFrancisco’ssuite,butstopped.Itwasnotwhathewanted;whathewantedwassimplytowalkin,unannounced,asFranciscohadwalkedintohisoffice;itwasthisthatseemedtostatesomeunstatedrightbetweenthem.
Onhiswaytotheelevator,hethought:Hewon’tbeinor,ifheis,you’llprobablyfindhimentertainingsomefloozie,whichwillserveyouright.Butthethoughtseemedunreal,hecouldnotmakeitapplytothemanhehadseenatthemouthofthefurnace—hestoodconfidentlyintheelevator,lookingup—hewalkedconfidentlydownthehall,feelinghisbitternessrelaxintogaiety—heknockedatthedoor.
Francisco’svoicesnapped,"Comein!"Ithadabrusque,absentmindedsound.
Reardenopenedthedoorandstoppedonthethreshold.Oneofthehotel’scostliestsatin-shadedlampsstoodinthemiddleofthefloor,throwingacircleoflightonwidesheetsofdraftingpaper.
