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"
Dagny
,
you
’
re
more
fortunate
than
I
.
Taggart
Transcontinental
is
a
delicate
piece
of
precision
machinery
.
It
will
not
last
long
without
you
.
It
cannot
be
run
by
slave
labor
.
They
will
mercifully
destroy
it
for
you
and
you
won
’
t
have
to
see
it
serving
the
looters
.
But
copper
mining
is
a
simpler
job
.
D
’
Anconia
Copper
could
have
lasted
for
generations
of
looters
and
slaves
.
Crudely
,
miserably
,
ineptly
—
but
it
could
have
lasted
and
helped
them
to
last
.
I
had
to
destroy
it
myself
.
"
"
You
—
what
?
"
"
I
am
destroying
d
’
Anconia
Copper
,
consciously
,
deliberately
,
by
plan
and
by
my
own
hand
.
I
have
to
plan
it
as
carefully
and
work
as
hard
as
if
I
were
producing
a
fortune
—
in
order
not
to
let
them
notice
it
and
stop
me
,
in
order
not
to
let
them
seize
the
mines
until
it
is
too
late
.
All
the
effort
and
energy
I
had
hoped
to
spend
on
d
’
Anconia
Copper
,
I
’
m
spending
them
,
only
.
.
.
only
it
’
s
not
to
make
it
grow
.
I
shall
destroy
every
last
bit
of
it
and
every
last
penny
of
my
fortune
and
every
ounce
of
copper
that
could
feed
the
looters
.
I
shall
not
leave
it
as
I
found
it
—
I
shall
leave
it
as
Sebastian
d
’
Anconia
found
it
—
then
let
them
try
to
exist
without
him
or
me
!
"
"
Francisco
!
"
she
screamed
.
"
How
could
you
make
yourself
do
it
?
"
"
By
the
grace
of
the
same
love
as
yours
,
"
he
answered
quietly
,
"
my
love
for
d
’
Anconia
Copper
,
for
the
spirit
of
which
it
was
the
shape
.
Was
—
and
,
some
day
,
will
be
again
.
"
She
sat
still
,
trying
to
grasp
all
the
implications
of
what
she
now
grasped
only
as
the
numbness
of
shock
.
In
the
silence
,
the
music
of
the
radio
symphony
went
on
,
and
the
rhythm
of
the
chords
reached
her
like
the
slow
,
solemn
pounding
of
steps
,
while
she
struggled
to
see
at
once
the
whole
progression
of
twelve
years
:
the
tortured
boy
who
called
for
help
on
her
breasts
—
the
man
who
sat
on
the
floor
of
a
drawing
room
,
playing
marbles
and
laughing
at
the
destruction
of
great
industries
—
the
man
who
cried
,
"
My
love
,
I
can
’
t
!
"
while
refusing
to
help
her
—
the
man
who
drank
a
toast
,
in
the
dim
booth
of
a
barroom
,
to
the
years
which
Sebastian
d
’
Anconia
had
had
to
wait
.
.
.
"
Francisco
.
.
.
of
all
the
guesses
I
tried
to
make
about
you
.
.
.
I
never
thought
of
it
.
.
.
I
never
thought
that
you
were
one
of
those
men
who
had
quit
.
.
.
"
"
I
was
one
of
the
first
of
them
.
"
"
I
thought
that
they
always
vanished
.
.
.
"
