451 по фаренгейту

           Fardowntheboulevard,fourblocksaway,thebeetlehadslowed,spunaboutontwowheels, andwasnowracingback,slantingoveronthewrongsideofthestreet,pickingupspeed. 

           ButMontagwasgone,hiddeninthesafetyofthedarkalleyforwhichhehadsetoutonalongjourney,anhourorwasitaminute,ago? Hestoodshiveringinthenight,lookingbackout asthebeetleranbyandskiddedbacktothecentreoftheavenue,whirlinglaughterintheairallaboutit,gone. 

           Furtheron,asMontagmovedindarkness,hecouldseethehelicoptersfalling,falling, likethefirstflakesofsnowinthelongwintertocome... 

           Thehousewassilent. 

           Montagapproachedfromtherear,creepingthroughathicknight-moistenedscentofdaffodilsandrosesandwetgrass. Hetouchedthescreendoorinback,founditopen, slippedin,movedacrosstheporch,listening. 

           Mrs.Black,areyouasleepinthere?hethought. Thisisn’tgood,butyourhusbanddidittoothers andneveraskedandneverwonderedandneverworried. Andnowsinceyou’reafireman’swife,it’syourhouseandyourturn, forallthehousesyourhusbandburnedandthepeoplehehurtwithoutthinking... 

           Thehousedidnotreply. 

           Hehidthebooksinthekitchenandmovedfromthehouseagaintothealley andlookedbackandthehousewasstilldarkandquiet,sleeping.