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- Стр. 1445/1581
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what
can
keep
us
apart
,
here
,
where
only
he
and
I
belong
?
.
.
.
Then
,
recapturing
the
context
of
the
present
,
she
had
walked
steadily
on
,
with
the
sense
of
the
same
unbroken
loyalty
,
but
the
sound
of
different
words
:
You
have
forbidden
me
to
look
for
you
,
you
may
damn
me
,
you
may
choose
to
discard
me
.
.
.
but
by
the
right
of
the
fact
that
I
am
alive
,
I
must
know
that
you
are
.
.
.
I
must
see
you
this
once
.
.
.
not
to
stop
,
not
to
speak
,
not
to
touch
you
,
only
to
see
.
.
.
She
had
not
seen
him
.
She
had
abandoned
her
search
,
when
she
had
noticed
the
curious
,
wondering
glances
of
the
underground
workers
,
following
her
steps
.
She
had
called
a
meeting
of
the
Terminal
track
laborers
for
the
alleged
purpose
of
boosting
their
morale
,
she
had
held
the
meeting
twice
,
to
face
all
the
men
in
turn
—
she
had
repeated
the
same
unintelligible
speech
,
feeling
a
stab
of
shame
at
the
empty
generalities
she
uttered
and
,
together
,
a
stab
of
pride
that
it
did
not
matter
to
her
any
longer
—
she
had
looked
at
the
exhausted
,
brutalized
faces
of
men
who
did
not
care
whether
they
were
ordered
to
work
or
to
listen
to
meaningless
sounds
.
She
had
not
seen
his
face
among
them
.
"
Was
everyone
present
?
"
she
had
asked
the
foreman
.
"
Yeah
,
I
guess
so
,
"
he
had
answered
indifferently
.
She
had
loitered
at
the
Terminal
entrances
,
watching
the
men
as
they
came
to
work
.
But
there
were
too
many
entrances
to
cover
and
no
place
where
she
could
watch
while
remaining
unseen
—
she
had
stood
in
the
soggy
twilight
on
a
sidewalk
glittering
with
rain
,
pressed
to
the
wall
of
a
warehouse
,
her
coat
collar
raised
to
her
cheekbones
,
raindrops
falling
off
the
brim
of
her
hat
—
she
had
stood
exposed
to
the
sight
of
the
street
,
knowing
that
the
glances
of
the
men
who
passed
her
were
glances
of
recognition
and
astonishment
,
knowing
that
her
vigil
was
too
dangerously
obvious
.
If
there
was
a
John
Galt
among
them
,
someone
could
guess
the
nature
of
her
quest
.
.
.
if
there
was
no
John
Galt
among
them
.
.
.
if
there
was
no
John
Galt
in
the
world
,
she
thought
,
then
no
danger
existed
—
and
no
world
.
No
danger
and
no
world
,
she
thought
—
as
she
walked
through
the
streets
of
the
slums
toward
a
house
with
the
number
"
367
,
"
which
was
or
was
not
his
home
.
She
wondered
whether
this
was
what
one
felt
while
awaiting
a
verdict
of
death
:
no
fear
,
no
anger
,
no
concern
,
nothing
but
the
icy
detachment
of
light
without
heat
or
of
cognition
without
values
.
A
tin
can
clattered
from
under
her
toes
,
and
the
sound
went
beating
too
loudly
and
too
long
,
as
if
against
the
walls
of
an
abandoned
city
.
The
streets
seemed
razed
by
exhaustion
,
not
by
rest
,
as
if
the
men
inside
the
walls
were
not
asleep
,
but
had
collapsed
.
He
would
be
home
from
work
at
this
hour
,
she
thought
.
.
.
if
he
worked
.
.
.
if
he
still
had
a
home
.
.
.
She
looked
at
the
shapes
of
the
slums
,
at
the
crumbling
plaster
,
the
peeling
paint
,
the
fading
signboards
of
failing
shops
with
unwanted
goods
in
unwashed
windows
,
the
sagging
steps
unsafe
to
climb
,
the
clotheslines
of
garments
unfit
to
wear
,
the
undone
,
the
unattended
,
the
given
up
,
the
incomplete
,
all
the
twisted
monuments
of
a
losing
race
against
two
enemies
:
"
no
time
"
and
"
no
strength
"
—
and
she
thought
that
this
was
the
place
where
he
had
lived
for
twelve
years
,
he
who
possessed
such
extravagant
power
to
lighten
the
job
of
human
existence
.
Some
memory
kept
struggling
to
reach
her
,
then
came
back
:
its
name
was
Starnesville
.
She
felt
the
sensation
of
a
shudder
.
But
this
is
New
York
City
!
—
she
cried
to
herself
in
defense
of
the
greatness
she
had
loved
;
then
she
faced
with
unmoving
austerity
the
verdict
pronounced
by
her
mind
:
a
city
that
had
left
him
in
these
slums
for
twelve
years
was
damned
and
doomed
to
the
future
of
Starnesville
.
Then
,
abruptly
,
it
ceased
to
matter
;
she
felt
a
peculiar
shock
,
like
the
shock
of
sudden
silence
,
a
sense
of
stillness
within
her
,
which
she
took
for
a
sense
of
calm
:
she
saw
the
number
"
367
"
above
the
door
of
an
ancient
tenement
.
