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- Стр. 1225/1581
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"
I
’
m
sorry
,
Jim
!
"
she
gasped
,
shocked
by
her
own
words
and
by
the
terror
in
his
eyes
.
"
It
’
s
just
that
I
don
’
t
understand
,
but
.
.
.
but
I
know
I
shouldn
’
t
bother
you
with
questions
when
you
’
re
so
tired
"
—
she
was
struggling
desperately
to
convince
herself
—
"
when
you
have
so
many
things
on
your
mind
.
.
.
such
.
.
.
such
great
things
.
.
.
things
I
can
’
t
even
begin
to
think
of
.
.
.
"
His
shoulders
sagged
,
relaxing
.
He
approached
her
and
dropped
wearily
down
on
his
knees
,
slipping
his
arms
around
her
.
"
You
poor
little
fool
,
"
he
said
affectionately
.
She
held
onto
him
,
moved
by
something
that
felt
like
tenderness
and
almost
like
pity
.
But
he
raised
his
head
to
glance
up
at
her
face
,
and
it
seemed
to
her
that
the
look
she
saw
in
his
eyes
was
part
-
gratification
,
part
-
contempt
—
almost
as
if
,
by
some
unknown
kind
of
sanction
,
she
had
absolved
him
and
damned
herself
.
It
was
useless
—
she
found
in
the
days
that
followed
—
to
tell
herself
that
these
things
were
beyond
her
understanding
,
that
it
was
her
duty
to
believe
in
him
,
that
love
was
faith
.
Her
doubt
kept
growing
—
doubt
of
his
incomprehensible
work
and
of
his
relation
to
the
railroad
.
She
wondered
why
it
kept
growing
in
direct
proportion
to
her
self
-
admonitions
that
faith
was
the
duty
she
owed
him
.
Then
,
one
sleepless
night
,
she
realized
that
her
effort
to
fulfill
that
duty
consisted
of
turning
away
whenever
people
discussed
his
job
,
of
refusing
to
look
at
newspaper
mentions
of
Taggart
Transcontinental
,
of
slamming
her
mind
shut
against
any
evidence
and
every
contradiction
.
She
stopped
,
aghast
,
struck
by
the
question
:
What
is
it
,
then
—
faith
versus
truth
?
And
realizing
that
part
of
her
zeal
to
believe
was
her
fear
to
know
,
she
set
out
to
learn
the
truth
,
with
a
cleaner
,
calmer
sense
of
rightness
than
the
effort
at
dutiful
self
-
fraud
had
ever
given
her
.
It
did
not
take
her
long
to
learn
.
The
evasiveness
of
the
Taggart
executives
,
when
she
asked
a
few
casual
questions
,
the
stale
generalities
of
their
answers
,
the
strain
of
their
manner
at
the
mention
of
their
boss
,
and
their
obvious
reluctance
to
discuss
him
—
told
her
nothing
concrete
,
but
gave
her
a
feeling
equivalent
to
knowing
the
worst
.
The
railroad
workers
were
more
specific
—
the
switchmen
,
the
gatemen
,
the
ticket
sellers
whom
she
drew
into
chance
conversations
in
the
Taggart
Terminal
and
who
did
not
know
her
.
"
Jim
Taggart
?
That
whining
,
sniveling
,
speech
-
making
deadhead
!
"
"
Jimmy
the
President
?
Well
,
I
’
ll
tell
you
:
he
’
s
the
hobo
on
the
gravy
train
.
"
"
The
boss
?
Mr
.
Taggart
?
You
mean
Miss
Taggart
,
don
’
t
you
?
"
It
was
Eddie
Willers
who
told
her
the
whole
truth
.
She
heard
that
he
had
known
Jim
since
childhood
,
and
she
asked
him
to
lunch
with
her
.
When
she
faced
him
at
the
table
,
when
she
saw
the
earnest
,
questioning
directness
of
his
eyes
and
the
severely
literal
simplicity
of
his
words
,
she
dropped
all
attempts
at
casual
prodding
,
she
told
him
what
she
wanted
to
know
and
why
,
briefly
,
impersonally
,
not
appealing
for
help
or
for
pity
,
only
for
truth
.
He
answered
her
in
the
same
manner
.
He
told
her
the
whole
story
,
quietly
,
impersonally
,
pronouncing
no
verdict
,
expressing
no
opinion
,
never
encroaching
on
her
emotions
by
any
sign
of
concern
for
them
,
speaking
with
the
shining
austerity
and
the
awesome
power
of
facts
.
He
told
her
who
ran
Taggart
Transcontinental
.
He
told
her
the
story
of
the
John
Galt
Line
.
