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- Айн Рэнд
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- Стр. 485/1581
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Then
no
rightful
cause
was
left
,
and
the
pain
of
anger
was
turning
into
the
shameful
pain
of
submission
.
He
had
no
right
to
condemn
anyone
—
he
thought
—
to
denounce
anything
,
to
fight
and
die
joyously
,
claiming
the
sanction
of
virtue
.
The
broken
promises
,
the
unconfessed
desires
,
the
betrayal
,
the
deceit
,
the
lies
,
the
fraud
—
he
was
guilty
of
them
all
.
What
form
of
corruption
could
he
scorn
?
Degrees
do
not
matter
,
he
thought
;
one
does
not
bargain
about
inches
of
evil
.
He
did
not
know
—
as
he
sat
slumped
at
his
desk
,
thinking
of
the
honesty
he
could
claim
no
longer
,
of
the
sense
of
justice
he
had
lost
—
that
it
was
his
rigid
honesty
and
ruthless
sense
of
justice
that
were
now
knocking
his
only
weapon
out
of
his
hands
.
He
would
fight
the
looters
,
but
the
wrath
and
fire
were
gone
.
He
would
fight
,
but
only
as
one
guilty
wretch
against
the
others
.
He
did
not
pronounce
the
words
,
but
the
pain
was
their
equivalent
,
the
ugly
pain
saying
:
Who
am
I
to
cast
the
first
stone
?
He
let
his
body
fall
across
the
desk
.
.
.
Dagny
,
he
thought
,
Dagny
,
if
this
is
the
price
I
have
to
pay
,
I
’
ll
pay
it
.
.
.
He
was
still
the
trader
who
knew
no
code
except
that
of
full
payment
for
his
desires
.
It
was
late
when
he
came
home
and
hurried
soundlessly
up
the
stairs
to
his
bedroom
.
He
hated
himself
for
being
reduced
to
sneaking
,
but
he
had
done
it
on
most
of
his
evenings
for
months
.
The
sight
of
his
family
had
become
unbearable
to
him
;
he
could
not
tell
why
.
Don
’
t
hate
them
for
your
own
guilt
,
he
had
told
himself
,
but
knew
dimly
that
this
was
not
the
root
of
his
hatred
.
He
closed
the
door
of
his
bedroom
like
a
fugitive
winning
a
moment
’
s
reprieve
.
He
moved
cautiously
,
undressing
for
bed
:
he
wanted
no
sound
to
betray
his
presence
to
his
family
,
he
wanted
no
contact
with
them
,
not
even
in
their
own
minds
.
He
had
put
on
his
pajamas
and
stopped
to
light
a
cigarette
,
when
the
door
of
his
bedroom
opened
.
The
only
person
who
could
properly
enter
his
room
without
knocking
had
never
volunteered
to
enter
it
,
so
he
stared
blankly
for
a
moment
before
he
was
able
to
believe
that
it
was
Lillian
who
came
in
.
She
wore
an
Empire
garment
of
pale
chartreuse
,
its
pleated
skirt
streaming
gracefully
from
its
high
waistline
;
one
could
not
tell
at
first
glance
whether
it
was
an
evening
gown
or
a
negligee
;
it
was
a
negligee
.
She
paused
in
the
doorway
,
the
lines
of
her
body
flowing
into
an
attractive
silhouette
against
the
light
.
"
I
know
I
shouldn
’
t
introduce
myself
to
a
stranger
,
"
she
said
softly
,
"
but
I
’
ll
have
to
:
my
name
is
Mrs
.
Rearden
.
"
He
could
not
tell
whether
it
was
sarcasm
or
a
plea
.
