-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Айн Рэнд
-
- Атлант расправил плечи
-
- Стр. 2/1581
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
He
had
become
accustomed
to
the
feeling
,
but
he
could
find
no
explanation
for
it
;
yet
the
bum
had
spoken
as
if
he
knew
that
Eddie
felt
it
,
as
if
he
thought
that
one
should
feel
it
,
and
more
:
as
if
he
knew
the
reason
.
Eddie
Willers
pulled
his
shoulders
straight
,
in
conscientious
self
-
discipline
.
He
had
to
stop
this
,
he
thought
;
he
was
beginning
to
imagine
things
.
Had
he
always
felt
it
?
He
was
thirty
-
two
years
old
.
He
tried
to
think
back
.
No
,
he
hadn
’
t
;
but
he
could
not
remember
when
it
had
started
.
The
feeling
came
to
him
suddenly
,
at
random
intervals
,
and
now
it
was
coming
more
often
than
ever
.
It
’
s
the
twilight
,
he
thought
;
I
hate
the
twilight
.
The
clouds
and
the
shafts
of
skyscrapers
against
them
were
turning
brown
,
like
an
old
painting
in
oil
,
the
color
of
a
fading
masterpiece
.
Long
streaks
of
grime
ran
from
under
the
pinnacles
down
the
slender
,
soot
-
eaten
walls
.
High
on
the
side
of
a
tower
there
was
a
crack
in
the
shape
of
a
motionless
lightning
,
the
length
of
ten
stories
.
A
jagged
object
cut
the
sky
above
the
roofs
;
it
was
half
a
spire
,
still
holding
the
glow
of
the
sunset
;
the
gold
leaf
had
long
since
peeled
off
the
other
half
.
The
glow
was
red
and
still
,
like
the
reflection
of
a
fire
:
not
an
active
fire
,
but
a
dying
one
which
it
is
too
late
to
stop
.
No
,
thought
Eddie
Willers
,
there
was
nothing
disturbing
in
the
sight
of
the
city
.
It
looked
as
it
had
always
looked
.
He
walked
on
,
reminding
himself
that
he
was
late
in
returning
to
the
office
.
He
did
not
like
the
task
which
he
had
to
perform
on
his
return
,
but
it
had
to
be
done
.
So
he
did
not
attempt
to
delay
it
,
but
made
himself
walk
faster
.
He
turned
a
corner
.
In
the
narrow
space
between
the
dark
silhouettes
of
two
buildings
,
as
in
the
crack
of
a
door
,
he
saw
the
page
of
a
gigantic
calendar
suspended
in
the
sky
.
It
was
the
calendar
that
the
mayor
of
New
York
had
erected
last
year
on
the
top
of
a
building
,
so
that
citizens
might
tell
the
day
of
the
month
as
they
told
the
hours
of
the
day
,
by
glancing
up
at
a
public
tower
.
A
white
rectangle
hung
over
the
city
,
imparting
the
date
to
the
men
in
the
streets
below
.
In
the
rusty
light
of
this
evening
’
s
sunset
,
the
rectangle
said
:
September
2
.
Eddie
Willers
looked
away
.
He
had
never
liked
the
sight
of
that
calendar
.
It
disturbed
him
,
in
a
manner
he
could
not
explain
or
define
.
The
feeling
seemed
to
blend
with
his
sense
of
uneasiness
;
it
had
the
same
quality
.
He
thought
suddenly
that
there
was
some
phrase
,
a
kind
of
quotation
,
that
expressed
what
the
calendar
seemed
to
suggest
.
But
he
could
not
recall
it
.
He
walked
,
groping
for
a
sentence
that
hung
in
his
mind
as
an
empty
shape
.
He
could
neither
fill
it
nor
dismiss
it
.
He
glanced
back
.
The
white
rectangle
stood
above
the
roofs
,
saying
in
immovable
finality
:
September
2
.
