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.
.
.
Well
,
it
serves
me
right
.
Forget
it
.
.
.
Forget
it
,
I
said
!
Why
do
you
question
me
like
this
?
It
’
s
only
her
private
life
.
What
can
it
matter
to
you
?
.
.
.
Drop
it
,
for
God
’
s
sake
!
Don
’
t
you
see
that
I
can
’
t
talk
about
it
?
.
.
.
Nothing
happened
,
nothing
’
s
wrong
with
me
,
I
just
—
oh
,
why
am
I
lying
?
I
can
’
t
lie
to
you
,
you
always
seem
to
see
everything
,
it
’
s
worse
than
trying
to
lie
to
myself
!
.
.
.
I
have
lied
to
myself
.
I
didn
’
t
know
what
I
felt
for
her
.
The
railroad
?
I
’
m
a
rotten
hypocrite
.
If
the
railroad
was
all
she
meant
to
me
,
it
wouldn
’
t
have
hit
me
like
this
.
I
wouldn
’
t
have
felt
that
I
wanted
to
kill
him
!
.
.
.
What
’
s
the
matter
with
you
tonight
?
Why
do
you
look
at
me
like
that
?
.
.
.
Oh
,
what
’
s
the
matter
with
all
of
us
?
Why
is
there
nothing
but
misery
left
for
anyone
?
Why
do
we
suffer
so
much
?
We
weren
’
t
meant
to
.
I
always
thought
that
we
were
to
be
happy
,
all
of
us
,
as
our
natural
fate
.
What
are
we
doing
?
What
have
we
lost
?
A
year
ago
,
I
wouldn
’
t
have
damned
her
for
finding
something
she
wanted
But
I
know
that
they
’
re
doomed
,
both
of
them
,
and
so
am
I
,
and
so
is
everybody
,
and
she
was
all
I
had
left
.
.
.
It
was
so
great
,
to
be
alive
,
it
was
such
a
wonderful
chance
,
I
didn
’
t
know
that
I
loved
it
and
that
that
was
our
love
,
hers
and
mine
and
yours
—
but
the
world
is
perishing
and
we
cannot
stop
it
.
Why
are
we
destroying
ourselves
?
Who
will
tell
us
the
truth
?
Who
will
save
us
?
Oh
,
who
is
John
Galt
?
!
.
.
.
No
,
it
’
s
no
use
.
It
doesn
’
t
matter
now
.
Why
should
I
feel
anything
?
We
won
’
t
last
much
longer
.
Why
should
I
care
what
she
does
?
Why
should
I
care
that
she
’
s
sleeping
with
Hank
Rearden
?
.
.
.
Oh
God
!
—
what
’
s
the
matter
with
you
?
Don
’
t
go
!
Where
are
you
going
?
"
She
sat
at
the
window
of
the
train
,
her
head
thrown
back
,
not
moving
,
wishing
she
would
never
have
to
move
again
.
The
telegraph
poles
went
racing
past
the
window
,
but
the
train
seemed
lost
in
a
void
,
between
a
brown
stretch
of
prairie
and
a
solid
spread
of
rusty
,
graying
clouds
.
The
twilight
was
draining
the
sky
without
the
wound
of
a
sunset
;
it
looked
more
like
the
fading
of
an
anemic
body
in
the
process
of
exhausting
its
last
drops
of
blood
and
light
.
The
train
was
going
west
,
as
if
it
,
too
,
were
pulled
to
follow
the
sinking
rays
and
quietly
to
vanish
from
the
earth
.
She
sat
still
,
feeling
no
desire
to
resist
it
.
She
wished
she
would
not
hear
the
sound
of
the
wheels
.
They
knocked
in
an
even
rhythm
,
every
fourth
knock
accented
—
and
it
seemed
to
her
that
through
the
rapid
,
running
clatter
of
some
futile
stampede
to
escape
,
the
beat
of
the
accented
knocks
was
like
the
steps
of
an
enemy
moving
toward
some
inexorable
purpose
.
She
had
never
experienced
it
before
,
this
sense
of
apprehension
at
the
sight
of
a
prairie
,
this
feeling
that
the
rail
was
only
a
fragile
thread
stretched
across
an
enormous
emptiness
,
like
a
worn
nerve
ready
to
break
.
She
had
never
expected
that
she
,
who
had
felt
as
if
she
were
the
motive
power
aboard
a
train
,
would
now
sit
wishing
,
like
a
child
or
a
savage
,
that
this
train
would
move
,
that
it
would
not
stop
,
that
it
would
get
her
there
on
time
—
wishing
it
,
not
like
an
act
of
will
,
but
like
a
plea
to
a
dark
unknown
.
She
thought
of
what
a
difference
one
month
had
made
.
