451 по фаренгейту
The Sieve and the Sand
Thefrontdooropenedslowly. Faberpeeredout,lookingveryoldinthelightandveryfragileandverymuchafraid. Theoldmanlookedasifhehadnotbeenoutofthehouseinyears. Heandthewhiteplasterwallsinsideweremuchthesame. Therewaswhiteinthefleshofhismouthandhischeeksandhishairwaswhiteandhiseyeshadfaded,withwhiteinthevaguebluenessthere. ThenhiseyestouchedonthebookunderMontag’sarmandhedidnotlooksooldanymoreandnotquiteasfragile. Slowlyhisfearwent.
"I’msorry.Onehastobecareful."
HelookedatthebookunderMontag’sarmandcouldnotstop."Soit’strue."
Montagsteppedinside.Thedoorshut.
"Sitdown."Faberbackedup,asifhefearedthebookmightvanishifhetookhiseyesfromit. Behindhim,thedoortoabedroomstoodopen,andinthatroomalitterofmachineryandsteeltoolswasstrewnuponadesk-top. Montaghadonlyaglimpse,beforeFaber,seeingMontag’sattentiondiverted,turnedquicklyandshutthebedroomdoor andstoodholdingtheknobwithatremblinghand. HisgazereturnedunsteadilytoMontag, whowasnowseatedwiththebookinhislap. "Thebook—wheredidyou—?"
"Istoleit."
Faber,forthefirsttime,raisedhiseyesandlookeddirectlyintoMontag’sface. "You’rebrave."
"No,"saidMontag."Mywife’sdying. Afriendofmine’salreadydead. Someonewhomayhavebeenafriendwasburntlessthantwenty-fourhoursago. You’retheonlyoneIknewmighthelpme. Tosee.Tosee..."
