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- Айн Рэнд
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- Атлант расправил плечи
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- Стр. 577/1581
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"
Hank
.
.
.
why
?
"
"
No
special
reason
.
I
just
wanted
to
see
you
wear
it
.
"
"
Oh
,
no
,
not
a
thing
of
this
kind
!
Why
waste
it
?
I
go
so
rarely
to
occasions
where
one
has
to
dress
.
When
would
I
ever
wear
it
?
"
He
looked
at
her
,
his
glance
moving
slowly
from
her
legs
to
her
face
.
"
I
’
ll
show
you
,
"
he
said
.
He
led
her
to
the
bedroom
,
he
took
off
her
clothes
,
without
a
word
,
in
the
manner
of
an
owner
undressing
a
person
whose
consent
is
not
required
.
He
clasped
the
pendant
on
her
shoulders
.
She
stood
naked
,
the
stone
between
her
breasts
,
like
a
sparkling
drop
of
blood
.
"
Do
you
think
a
man
should
give
jewelry
to
his
mistress
for
any
purpose
but
his
own
pleasure
?
"
he
asked
.
"
This
is
the
way
I
want
you
to
wear
it
.
Only
for
me
.
I
like
to
look
at
it
.
It
’
s
beautiful
.
"
She
laughed
;
it
was
a
soft
,
low
,
breathless
sound
.
She
could
not
speak
or
move
,
only
nod
silently
in
acceptance
and
obedience
;
she
nodded
several
times
,
her
hair
swaying
with
the
wide
,
circular
movement
of
her
head
,
then
hanging
still
as
she
kept
her
head
bowed
to
him
.
She
dropped
down
on
the
bed
.
She
lay
stretched
lazily
,
her
head
thrown
back
,
her
arms
at
her
sides
,
palms
pressed
to
the
rough
texture
of
the
bedspread
,
one
leg
bent
,
the
long
line
of
the
other
extended
across
the
dark
blue
linen
of
the
spread
,
the
stone
glowing
like
a
wound
in
the
semi
-
darkness
,
throwing
a
star
of
rays
against
her
skin
.
Her
eyes
were
half
-
closed
in
the
mocking
,
conscious
triumph
of
being
admired
,
but
her
mouth
was
half
-
open
in
helpless
,
begging
expectation
.
He
stood
across
the
room
,
looking
at
her
,
at
her
flat
stomach
drawn
in
,
as
her
breath
was
drawn
,
at
the
sensitive
body
of
a
sensitive
consciousness
.
He
said
,
his
voice
low
,
intent
and
oddly
quiet
:
"
Dagny
,
if
some
artist
painted
you
as
you
are
now
,
men
would
come
to
look
at
the
painting
to
experience
a
moment
that
nothing
could
give
them
in
their
own
lives
.
They
would
call
it
great
art
.
They
would
not
know
the
nature
of
what
they
felt
,
but
the
painting
would
show
them
everything
—
even
that
you
’
re
not
some
classical
Venus
,
but
the
Vice
-
President
of
a
railroad
,
because
that
’
s
part
of
it
—
even
what
I
am
,
because
that
’
s
part
of
it
,
too
.
Dagny
,
they
’
d
feel
it
and
go
away
and
sleep
with
the
first
barmaid
in
sight
—
and
they
’
d
never
try
to
reach
what
they
had
felt
.
I
wouldn
’
t
want
to
seek
it
from
a
painting
.
I
’
d
want
it
real
.
I
’
d
take
no
pride
in
any
hopeless
longing
.
I
wouldn
’
t
hold
a
stillborn
aspiration
.
I
’
d
want
to
have
it
,
to
make
it
,
to
live
it
.
