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Beyond
them
,
at
the
end
of
space
,
at
the
foot
of
a
white
curve
,
hung
a
webbed
rectangle
which
was
the
bridge
.
She
felt
a
rhythm
without
sound
or
movement
,
a
sense
of
beating
tension
,
as
if
the
wheels
of
the
John
Galt
Line
were
still
speeding
on
.
Slowly
,
in
answer
and
in
resistance
to
an
unspoken
summons
,
she
turned
and
looked
at
him
.
The
look
she
saw
on
his
face
made
her
know
for
the
first
time
that
she
had
known
this
would
be
the
end
of
the
journey
.
That
look
was
not
as
men
are
taught
to
represent
it
,
it
was
not
a
matter
of
loose
muscles
,
hanging
lips
and
mindless
hunger
.
The
lines
of
his
face
were
pulled
tight
,
giving
it
a
peculiar
purity
,
a
sharp
precision
of
form
,
making
it
clean
and
young
.
His
mouth
was
taut
,
the
lips
faintly
drawn
inward
,
stressing
the
outline
of
its
shape
.
Only
his
eyes
were
blurred
,
their
lower
lids
swollen
and
raised
,
their
glance
intent
with
that
which
resembled
hatred
and
pain
.
The
shock
became
numbness
spreading
through
her
body
—
she
felt
a
tight
pressure
in
her
throat
and
her
stomach
—
she
was
conscious
of
nothing
but
a
silent
convulsion
that
made
her
unable
to
breathe
.
But
what
she
felt
,
without
words
for
it
,
was
:
Yes
,
Hank
,
yes
—
now
—
because
it
is
part
of
the
same
battle
,
in
some
way
that
I
can
’
t
name
.
.
.
because
it
is
our
being
,
against
theirs
.
.
.
our
great
capacity
,
for
which
they
torture
us
,
the
capacity
of
happiness
.
.
.
Now
,
like
this
,
without
words
or
questions
.
.
.
because
we
want
it
.
.
.
It
was
like
an
act
of
hatred
,
like
the
cutting
blow
of
a
lash
encircling
her
body
:
she
felt
his
arms
around
her
,
she
felt
her
legs
pulled
forward
against
him
and
her
chest
bent
back
under
the
pressure
of
his
,
his
mouth
on
hers
.
Her
hand
moved
from
his
shoulders
to
his
waist
to
his
legs
,
releasing
the
unconfessed
desire
of
her
every
meeting
with
him
.
When
she
tore
her
mouth
away
from
him
,
she
was
laughing
soundlessly
,
in
triumph
,
as
if
saying
:
Hank
Rearden
—
the
austere
,
unapproachable
Hank
Rearden
of
the
monk
like
office
,
the
business
conferences
,
the
harsh
bargains
—
do
you
remember
them
now
?
—
I
’
m
thinking
of
it
,
for
the
pleasure
of
knowing
that
I
’
ve
brought
you
to
this
.
He
was
not
smiling
,
his
face
was
tight
,
it
was
the
face
of
an
enemy
,
he
jerked
her
head
and
caught
her
mouth
again
,
as
if
he
were
inflicting
a
wound
.
She
felt
him
trembling
and
she
thought
that
this
was
the
kind
of
cry
she
had
wanted
to
tear
from
him
—
this
surrender
through
the
shreds
of
his
tortured
resistance
.
Yet
she
knew
,
at
the
same
time
,
that
the
triumph
was
his
,
that
her
laughter
was
her
tribute
to
him
,
that
her
defiance
was
submission
,
that
the
purpose
of
all
of
her
violent
strength
was
only
to
make
his
victory
the
greater
—
he
was
holding
her
body
against
his
,
as
if
stressing
his
wish
to
let
her
know
that
she
was
now
only
a
tool
for
the
satisfaction
of
his
desire
—
and
his
victory
,
she
knew
,
was
her
wish
to
let
him
reduce
her
to
that
.
Whatever
I
am
,
she
thought
,
whatever
pride
of
person
I
may
hold
,
the
pride
of
my
courage
,
of
my
work
,
of
my
mind
and
my
freedom
—
that
is
what
I
offer
you
for
the
pleasure
of
your
body
,
that
is
what
I
want
you
to
use
in
your
service
—
and
that
you
want
it
to
serve
you
is
the
greatest
reward
I
can
have
.
There
were
lights
burning
in
the
two
rooms
behind
them
.
He
took
her
wrist
and
threw
her
inside
his
room
,
making
the
gesture
tell
her
that
he
needed
no
sign
of
consent
or
resistance
.
He
locked
the
door
,
watching
her
face
.
Standing
straight
,
holding
his
glance
,
she
extended
her
arm
to
the
lamp
on
the
table
and
turned
out
the
light
.
He
approached
.
He
turned
the
light
on
again
,
with
a
single
,
contemptuous
jerk
of
his
wrist
.
