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- Айн Рэнд
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- Атлант расправил плечи
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- Стр. 1257/1581
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Her
fingers
half
-
closed
limply
about
the
glass
,
and
she
drank
,
spilling
the
liquor
down
her
chin
,
her
breast
and
her
gown
.
"
Oh
hell
,
Lillian
,
you
’
re
a
mess
!
"
he
said
and
,
not
troubling
to
reach
for
his
handkerchief
,
he
stretched
out
his
hand
to
wipe
the
liquor
with
the
flat
of
his
palm
.
His
fingers
slipped
under
the
gown
’
s
neckline
,
closing
over
her
breast
,
his
breath
catching
in
a
sudden
gulp
,
like
a
hiccough
.
His
eyelids
were
drawing
closed
,
but
he
caught
a
glimpse
of
her
face
leaning
back
unresistingly
,
her
mouth
swollen
with
revulsion
.
When
he
reached
for
her
mouth
,
her
arms
embraced
him
obediently
and
her
mouth
responded
,
but
the
response
was
just
a
pressure
,
not
a
kiss
.
He
raised
his
head
to
glance
at
her
face
.
Her
teeth
were
bared
in
a
smile
,
but
she
was
staring
past
him
,
as
if
mocking
some
invisible
presence
,
her
smile
lifeless
,
yet
loud
with
malice
,
like
the
grin
of
a
fleshless
skull
.
He
jerked
her
closer
,
to
stifle
the
sight
and
his
own
shudder
.
His
hands
were
going
through
the
automatic
motions
of
intimacy
—
and
she
complied
,
but
in
a
manner
that
made
him
feel
as
if
the
beats
of
her
arteries
under
his
touch
were
snickering
giggles
.
They
were
both
performing
an
expected
routine
,
a
routine
invented
by
someone
and
imposed
upon
them
,
performing
it
in
mockery
,
in
hatred
,
in
defiling
parody
on
its
inventors
.
He
felt
a
sightless
,
heedless
fury
,
part
-
horror
,
part
-
pleasure
—
the
horror
of
committing
an
act
he
would
never
dare
confess
to
anyone
—
the
pleasure
of
committing
it
in
blasphemous
defiance
of
those
to
whom
he
would
not
dare
confess
it
.
He
was
himself
!
—
the
only
conscious
part
of
his
rage
seemed
to
be
screaming
to
him
—
he
was
,
at
last
,
himself
!
They
did
not
speak
.
They
knew
each
other
’
s
motive
.
Only
two
words
were
pronounced
between
them
.
"
Mrs
.
Rearden
,
"
he
said
.
They
did
not
look
at
each
other
when
he
pushed
her
into
his
bedroom
and
onto
his
bed
,
falling
against
her
body
,
as
against
a
soft
stuffed
object
.
Their
faces
had
a
look
of
secrecy
,
the
look
of
partners
in
guilt
,
the
furtive
,
smutty
look
of
children
defiling
someone
’
s
clean
fence
by
chalking
sneaky
scratches
intended
as
symbols
of
obscenity
.
Afterward
,
it
did
not
disappoint
him
that
what
he
had
possessed
was
an
inanimate
body
without
resistance
or
response
.
It
was
not
a
woman
that
he
had
wanted
to
possess
.
It
was
not
an
act
in
celebration
of
life
that
he
had
wanted
to
perform
—
but
an
act
in
celebration
of
the
triumph
of
impotence
.
