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- Стр. 1109/1581
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She
stopped
him
.
It
was
her
voice
,
more
than
her
words
,
that
made
him
stop
:
her
voice
was
low
,
it
had
no
quality
of
emotion
,
only
of
a
sinking
weight
,
and
its
sole
color
was
some
dragging
undertone
,
like
an
inner
echo
,
resembling
a
threat
;
it
was
the
voice
of
the
plea
of
a
person
who
still
retains
a
concept
of
honor
,
but
is
long
past
caring
for
it
:
"
You
want
to
hold
me
here
,
don
’
t
you
?
"
"
More
than
anything
else
in
the
world
.
"
"
You
could
hold
me
.
"
"
I
know
it
.
"
His
voice
had
said
it
with
the
same
sound
as
hers
.
He
waited
,
to
regain
his
breath
.
When
he
spoke
,
his
voice
was
low
and
clear
,
with
some
stressed
quality
of
awareness
,
which
was
almost
the
quality
of
a
smile
of
understanding
:
"
It
’
s
your
acceptance
of
this
place
that
I
want
.
What
good
would
it
do
me
,
to
have
your
physical
presence
without
any
meaning
?
That
’
s
the
kind
of
faked
reality
by
which
most
people
cheat
themselves
of
their
lives
.
I
’
m
not
capable
of
it
.
"
He
turned
to
go
.
"
And
neither
are
you
.
Good
night
,
Miss
Taggart
.
"
He
walked
out
,
into
his
bedroom
,
closing
the
door
.
She
was
past
the
realm
of
thought
—
as
she
lay
in
bed
in
the
darkness
of
her
room
,
unable
to
think
or
to
sleep
—
and
the
moaning
violence
that
filled
her
mind
seemed
only
a
sensation
of
her
muscles
,
but
its
tone
and
its
twisting
shades
were
like
a
pleading
cry
,
which
she
knew
,
not
as
words
,
but
as
pain
:
Let
him
come
here
,
let
him
break
—
let
it
be
damned
,
all
of
it
,
my
railroad
and
his
strike
and
everything
we
’
ve
lived
by
!
—
let
it
be
damned
,
everything
we
’
ve
been
and
are
!
—
he
would
,
if
tomorrow
I
were
to
die
—
then
let
me
die
,
but
tomorrow
—
let
him
come
here
,
be
it
any
price
he
names
,
I
have
nothing
left
that
’
s
not
for
sale
to
him
any
longer
—
is
this
what
it
means
to
be
an
animal
?
—
it
does
and
I
am
.
.
.
She
lay
on
her
back
,
her
palms
pressed
to
the
sheet
at
her
sides
,
to
stop
herself
from
rising
and
walking
into
his
room
,
knowing
that
she
was
capable
even
of
that
.
.
.
It
’
s
not
I
,
it
’
s
a
body
I
can
neither
endure
nor
control
.
.
.
But
somewhere
within
her
,
not
as
words
,
but
as
a
radiant
point
of
stillness
,
there
was
the
presence
of
the
judge
who
seemed
to
observe
her
,
not
in
stern
condemnation
any
longer
,
but
in
approval
and
amusement
,
as
if
saying
:
Your
body
?
—
if
he
were
not
what
you
know
him
to
be
,
would
your
body
bring
you
to
this
?
—
why
is
it
his
body
that
you
want
,
and
no
other
?
—
do
you
think
that
you
are
damning
them
,
the
things
you
both
have
lived
by
?
—
are
you
damning
that
which
you
are
honoring
in
this
very
moment
,
by
your
very
desire
?
.
.
.
She
did
not
have
to
hear
the
words
,
she
knew
them
,
she
had
always
known
them
.
.
.
.
After
a
while
,
she
lost
the
glow
of
that
knowledge
,
and
there
was
nothing
left
but
pain
and
the
palms
that
were
pressed
to
the
sheet
—
and
the
almost
indifferent
wonder
whether
he
,
too
,
was
awake
and
fighting
the
same
torture
.
She
heard
no
sound
in
the
house
and
saw
no
light
from
his
window
on
the
tree
trunks
outside
.
After
a
long
while
she
heard
,
from
the
darkness
of
his
room
,
two
sounds
that
gave
her
a
full
answer
;
she
knew
that
he
was
awake
and
that
he
would
not
come
;
it
was
the
sound
of
a
step
and
the
click
of
a
cigarette
lighter
.
