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- Айн Рэнд
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- Стр. 1043/1581
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The
gesture
of
his
arm
pointed
at
the
town
,
at
the
road
behind
them
.
"
What
have
I
been
doing
?
"
he
asked
.
They
drove
on
in
silence
.
After
a
while
,
she
asked
,
in
the
tone
of
a
dryly
statistical
inquiry
,
"
How
much
of
a
fortune
has
Midas
Mulligan
amassed
in
this
valley
?
"
He
pointed
ahead
.
"
Judge
for
yourself
.
"
The
road
was
winding
through
stretches
of
unleveled
soil
toward
the
homes
of
the
valley
.
The
homes
were
not
lined
along
a
street
,
they
were
spread
at
irregular
intervals
over
the
rises
and
hollows
of
the
ground
,
they
were
small
and
simple
,
built
of
local
materials
,
mostly
of
granite
and
pine
,
with
a
prodigal
ingenuity
of
thought
and
a
tight
economy
of
physical
effort
.
Every
house
looked
as
if
it
had
been
put
up
by
the
labor
of
one
man
,
no
two
houses
were
alike
,
and
the
only
quality
they
had
in
common
was
the
stamp
of
a
mind
grasping
a
problem
and
solving
it
.
Galt
pointed
out
a
house
,
once
in
a
while
,
choosing
the
names
she
knew
—
and
it
sounded
to
her
like
a
list
of
quotations
from
the
richest
stock
exchange
in
the
world
,
or
like
a
roll
call
of
honor
:
"
Ken
Danagger
.
.
.
Ted
Nielsen
.
.
.
Lawrence
Hammond
.
.
.
Roger
Marsh
.
.
.
Ellis
Wyatt
.
.
.
Owen
Kellogg
.
.
.
Dr
.
Akston
.
"
The
home
of
Dr
.
Akston
was
the
last
,
a
small
cottage
with
a
large
terrace
,
lifted
on
the
crest
of
a
wave
against
the
rising
walls
of
the
mountains
.
The
road
went
past
it
and
climbed
on
into
the
coils
of
an
ascending
grade
.
The
pavement
shrank
to
a
narrow
path
between
two
walls
of
ancient
pines
,
their
tall
,
straight
trunks
pressing
against
it
like
a
grim
colonnade
,
their
branches
meeting
above
,
swallowing
the
path
into
sudden
silence
and
twilight
.
There
were
no
marks
of
wheels
on
the
thin
strip
of
earth
,
it
looked
unused
and
forgotten
,
a
few
minutes
and
a
few
turns
seemed
to
take
the
car
miles
away
from
human
habitation
—
and
then
there
was
nothing
to
break
the
pressure
of
the
stillness
but
a
rare
wedge
of
sunlight
cutting
across
the
trunks
in
the
depth
of
the
forest
once
in
a
while
.
The
sudden
sight
of
a
house
on
the
edge
of
the
path
struck
her
like
the
shock
of
an
unexpected
sound
:
built
in
loneliness
,
cut
off
from
all
ties
to
human
existence
,
it
looked
like
the
secret
retreat
of
some
great
defiance
or
sorrow
.
It
was
the
humblest
home
of
the
valley
,
a
log
cabin
beaten
in
dark
streaks
by
the
tears
of
many
rains
,
only
its
great
windows
withstanding
the
storms
with
the
smooth
,
shining
,
untouched
serenity
of
glass
.
"
Whose
house
is
.
.
.
Oh
!
"
—
she
caught
her
breath
and
jerked
her
head
away
.
Above
the
door
,
hit
by
a
ray
of
sun
,
its
design
blurred
and
worn
,
battered
smooth
by
the
winds
of
centuries
,
hung
the
silver
coat
-
of
-
arms
of
Sebastian
d
’
Anconia
.
As
if
in
deliberate
answer
to
her
involuntary
movement
of
escape
,
Galt
stopped
the
car
in
front
of
the
house
.
