451 по фаренгейту

           "ButClarisse’sfavouritesubjectwasn’therself. Itwaseveryoneelse,andme. ShewasthefirstpersoninagoodmanyyearsI’vereallyliked. ShewasthefirstpersonIcanrememberwholookedstraightatmeasifIcounted." Heliftedthetwobooks. "Thesemenhavebeendeadalongtime,butIknowtheirwordspoint,onewayoranother,toClarisse." 

           Outsidethefrontdoor,intherain,afaintscratching. 

           Montagfroze.HesawMildredthrustherselfbacktothewallandgasp. 

           "Someone—thedoor—whydoesn’tthedoor—voicetellus— "Ishutitoff." 

           Underthedoor-sill,aslow,probingsniff,anexhalationofelectricsteam. 

           Mildredlaughed. "It’sonlyadog,that’swhat!Youwantmetoshoohimaway?" 

           "Staywhereyouare!" 

           Silence.Thecoldrainfalling. Andthesmellofblueelectricityblowingunderthelockeddoor. 

           "Let’sgetbacktowork,"saidMontagquietly. 

           Mildredkickedatabook. "Booksaren’tpeople. YoureadandIlookaround,butthereisn’tanybody!" 

           Hestaredattheparlourthatwasdeadandgreyasthewatersofanoceanthatmightteemwithlifeiftheyswitchedontheelectronicsun.