451 по фаренгейту

It was a pleasure to burn

           Hewascertainifhetriedthesameroute,everythingwouldworkoutfine. Butitwaslate,andthearrivalofhistrainputastoptohisplan. 

           Theflutterofcards,motionofhands,ofeyelids,thedroneofthetime-voiceinthefirehouseceiling "...onethirty-five.Thursdaymorning,November4th...onethirty-six...onethirty-sevena.m...? Thetickoftheplaying-cardsonthegreasytable-top,allthesoundscametoMontag,behindhisclosedeyes,behindthebarrierhehadmomentarilyerected. Hecouldfeelthefirehousefullofglitterandshineandsilence,ofbrasscolours,thecoloursofcoins,ofgold,ofsilver: Theunseenmenacrossthetableweresighingontheircards,waiting. 

           "...oneforty-five..."Thevoice-clockmournedoutthecoldhourofacoldmorningofastillcolderyear. 

           "What’swrong,Montag?" 

           Montagopenedhiseyes. 

           Aradiohummedsomewhere. "...warmaybedeclaredanyhour.Thiscountrystandsreadytodefendits" 

           Thefirehousetrembledasagreatflightofjetplaneswhistledasinglenoteacrosstheblackmorningsky. 

           Montagblinked.Beattywaslookingathimasifhewereamuseumstatue. Atanymoment,Beattymightriseandwalkabouthim,touching,exploringhisguiltandself-consciousness. Guilt?Whatguiltwasthat? 

           "Yourplay,Montag." 

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