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- Стр. 355/1581
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She
thought
:
To
find
a
feeling
that
would
hold
,
as
their
sum
,
as
their
final
expression
,
the
purpose
of
all
the
things
she
loved
on
earth
.
.
.
To
find
a
consciousness
like
her
own
,
who
would
be
the
meaning
of
her
world
,
as
she
would
be
of
his
.
.
.
No
,
not
Francisco
d
’
Anconia
,
not
Hank
Rearden
,
not
any
man
she
had
ever
met
or
admired
.
.
.
A
man
who
existed
only
in
her
knowledge
of
her
capacity
for
an
emotion
she
had
never
felt
,
but
would
have
given
her
life
to
experience
.
.
.
She
twisted
herself
in
a
slow
,
faint
movement
,
her
breasts
pressed
to
the
desk
;
she
felt
the
longing
in
her
muscles
,
in
the
nerves
of
her
body
.
Is
that
what
you
want
?
Is
it
as
simple
as
that
?
—
she
thought
,
but
knew
that
it
was
not
simple
.
There
was
some
unbreakable
link
between
her
love
for
her
work
and
the
desire
of
her
body
;
as
if
one
gave
her
the
right
to
the
other
,
the
right
and
the
meaning
;
as
if
one
were
the
completion
of
the
other
—
and
the
desire
would
never
be
satisfied
,
except
by
a
being
of
equal
greatness
.
Her
face
pressed
to
her
arm
,
she
moved
her
head
,
shaking
it
slowly
in
negation
.
She
would
never
find
it
.
Her
own
thought
of
what
life
could
be
like
,
was
all
she
would
ever
have
of
the
world
she
had
wanted
.
Only
the
thought
of
it
—
and
a
few
rare
moments
,
like
a
few
lights
reflected
from
it
on
her
way
—
to
know
,
to
hold
,
to
follow
to
the
end
.
.
.
She
raised
her
head
.
On
the
pavement
of
the
alley
,
outside
her
window
,
she
saw
the
shadow
of
a
man
who
stood
at
the
door
of
her
office
.
The
door
was
some
steps
away
;
she
could
not
see
him
,
or
the
street
light
beyond
,
only
his
shadow
on
the
stones
of
the
pavement
.
He
stood
perfectly
still
.
He
was
so
close
to
the
door
,
like
a
man
about
to
enter
,
that
she
waited
to
hear
him
knock
.
Instead
,
she
saw
the
shadow
jerk
abruptly
,
as
if
he
were
jolted
backward
,
then
he
turned
and
walked
away
.
There
was
only
the
outline
of
his
hat
brim
and
shoulders
left
on
the
ground
,
when
he
stopped
.
The
shadow
lay
still
for
a
moment
,
wavered
,
and
grew
longer
again
as
he
came
back
.
She
felt
no
fear
.
She
sat
at
her
desk
,
motionless
,
watching
in
blank
wonder
.
He
stopped
at
the
door
,
then
backed
away
from
it
;
he
stood
somewhere
in
the
middle
of
the
alley
,
then
paced
restlessly
and
stopped
again
.
His
shadow
swung
like
an
irregular
pendulum
across
the
pavement
,
describing
the
course
of
a
soundless
battle
:
it
was
a
man
fighting
himself
to
enter
that
door
or
to
escape
.
She
looked
on
,
with
peculiar
detachment
.
She
had
no
power
to
react
,
only
to
observe
.
She
wondered
numbly
,
distantly
:
Who
was
he
?
Had
he
been
watching
her
from
somewhere
in
the
darkness
?
Had
he
seen
her
slumped
across
her
desk
,
in
the
lighted
,
naked
window
?
Had
he
watched
her
desolate
loneliness
as
she
was
now
watching
his
?
She
felt
nothing
.
They
were
alone
in
the
silence
of
a
dead
city
—
it
seemed
to
her
that
he
was
miles
away
,
a
reflection
of
suffering
without
identity
,
a
fellow
survivor
whose
problem
was
as
distant
to
her
as
hers
would
be
to
him
.
