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- Стр. 359/1581
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"
Now
why
do
you
want
to
use
such
words
?
"
"
I
might
as
well
tell
you
—
and
I
think
you
know
it
—
that
I
am
not
good
at
games
of
that
kind
.
I
have
neither
the
time
nor
the
stomach
to
devise
some
form
of
blackmail
in
order
to
tie
you
up
and
own
my
mines
through
you
.
Ownership
is
a
thing
I
don
’
t
share
.
And
I
don
’
t
wish
to
hold
it
by
the
grace
of
your
cowardice
—
by
means
of
a
constant
struggle
to
outwit
you
and
keep
some
threat
over
your
head
.
I
don
’
t
do
business
that
way
and
I
don
’
t
deal
with
cowards
.
The
mines
are
yours
.
If
you
wish
to
give
me
first
call
on
all
the
ore
produced
,
you
will
do
so
.
If
you
wish
to
double
-
cross
me
,
it
’
s
in
your
power
.
"
Larkin
looked
hurt
.
"
That
’
s
very
unfair
of
you
,
"
he
said
;
there
was
a
dry
little
note
of
righteous
reproach
in
his
voice
.
"
I
have
never
given
you
cause
to
distrust
me
.
"
He
picked
up
the
papers
with
a
hasty
movement
.
Rearden
saw
the
papers
disappear
into
Larkin
’
s
inside
coat
pocket
.
He
saw
the
flare
of
the
open
coat
,
the
wrinkles
of
a
vest
pulled
tight
over
flabby
bulges
,
and
a
stain
of
perspiration
in
the
armpit
of
the
shirt
.
Unsummoned
,
the
picture
of
a
face
seen
twenty
-
seven
years
ago
rose
suddenly
in
his
mind
.
It
was
the
face
of
a
preacher
on
a
street
corner
he
had
passed
,
in
a
town
he
could
not
remember
any
longer
.
Only
the
dark
walls
of
the
slums
remained
in
his
memory
,
the
rain
of
an
autumn
evening
,
and
the
righteous
malice
of
the
man
’
s
mouth
,
a
small
mouth
stretched
to
yell
into
the
darkness
:
"
.
.
.
the
noblest
ideal
—
that
man
live
for
the
sake
of
his
brothers
,
that
the
strong
work
for
the
weak
,
that
he
who
has
ability
serve
him
who
hasn
’
t
.
.
.
"
Then
he
saw
the
boy
who
had
been
Hank
Rearden
at
eighteen
.
He
saw
the
tension
of
the
face
,
the
speed
of
the
walk
,
the
drunken
exhilaration
of
the
body
,
drunk
on
the
energy
of
sleepless
nights
,
the
proud
lift
of
the
head
,
the
clear
,
steady
,
ruthless
eyes
,
the
eyes
of
a
man
who
drove
himself
without
pity
toward
that
which
he
wanted
.
And
he
saw
what
Paul
Larkin
must
have
been
at
that
time
—
a
youth
with
an
aged
baby
’
s
face
,
smiling
ingratiatingly
,
joylessly
,
begging
to
be
spared
,
pleading
with
the
universe
to
give
him
a
chance
.
If
someone
had
shown
that
youth
to
the
Hank
Rearden
of
that
time
and
told
him
that
this
was
to
be
the
goal
of
his
steps
,
the
collector
of
the
energy
of
his
aching
tendons
,
what
would
he
have
—
