451 по фаренгейту
It was a pleasure to burn
Nowitwasinherearagain,humming.
Helistenedandhiswifewassingingunderherbreath.
Outsidethehouse,ashadowmoved,anautumnwindroseupandfadedaway.Buttherewassomethingelseinthesilencethatheheard.Itwaslikeabreathexhaleduponthewindow. Itwaslikeafaintdriftofgreenishluminescentsmoke,themotionofasinglehugeOctoberleafblowingacrossthelawnandaway.
TheHound,hethought.It’souttheretonight.It’souttherenow.IfIopenedthewindow...
Hedidnotopenthewindow.
Hehadchillsandfeverinthemorning.
"Youcan’tbesick,"saidMildred.
Heclosedhiseyesoverthehotness. "Yes."
"Butyouwereallrightlastnight."
"No,Iwasn’tallright."Heheardthe"relatives"shoutingintheparlour.
Mildredstoodoverhisbed,curiously. Hefeltherthere,hesawherwithoutopeninghiseyes,herhairburntbychemicalstoabrittlestraw,hereyeswithakindofcataractunseenbutsuspectfarbehindthepupils,thereddenedpoutinglips, thebodyasthinasaprayingmantisfromdieting,andherfleshlikewhitebacon.Hecouldrememberhernootherway.
"Willyoubringmeaspirinandwater?"
