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- Айн Рэнд
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- Атлант расправил плечи
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- Стр. 998/1581
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He
was
carrying
her
down
a
narrow
trail
that
went
winding
to
the
bottom
of
the
valley
.
On
the
slopes
around
them
,
the
tall
,
dark
pyramids
of
firs
stood
immovably
straight
,
in
masculine
simplicity
,
like
sculpture
reduced
to
an
essential
form
,
and
they
clashed
with
the
complex
,
feminine
,
over
detailed
lace
-
work
of
the
birch
leaves
trembling
in
the
sun
.
The
leaves
let
the
sunrays
fall
through
to
sweep
across
his
hair
,
across
both
their
faces
.
She
could
not
see
what
lay
below
,
beyond
the
turns
of
the
trail
.
Her
eyes
kept
coming
back
to
his
face
.
He
glanced
down
at
her
once
in
a
while
.
At
first
,
she
looked
away
,
as
if
she
had
been
caught
.
Then
,
as
if
learning
it
from
him
,
she
held
his
glance
whenever
he
chose
to
look
down
—
knowing
that
he
knew
what
she
felt
and
that
he
did
not
hide
from
her
the
meaning
of
his
glance
.
She
knew
that
his
silence
was
the
same
confession
as
her
own
.
He
did
not
hold
her
in
the
impersonal
manner
of
a
man
carrying
a
wounded
woman
.
It
was
an
embrace
,
even
though
she
felt
no
suggestion
of
it
in
his
bearing
;
she
felt
it
only
by
means
of
her
certainty
that
his
whole
body
was
aware
of
holding
hers
.
She
heard
the
sound
of
the
waterfall
before
she
saw
the
fragile
thread
that
fell
in
broken
strips
of
glitter
down
the
ledges
.
The
sound
came
through
some
dim
beat
in
her
mind
,
some
faint
rhythm
that
seemed
no
louder
than
a
struggling
memory
—
but
they
went
past
and
the
beat
remained
;
she
listened
to
the
sound
of
the
water
,
but
another
sound
seemed
to
grow
clearer
,
rising
,
not
in
her
mind
,
but
from
somewhere
among
the
leaves
.
The
trail
turned
,
and
in
a
sudden
clearing
she
saw
a
small
house
on
a
ledge
below
,
with
a
flash
of
sun
on
the
pane
of
an
open
window
.
In
the
moment
when
she
knew
what
experience
had
once
made
her
want
to
surrender
to
the
immediate
present
—
it
had
been
the
night
in
a
dusty
coach
of
the
Comet
,
when
she
had
heard
the
theme
of
Halley
’
s
Fifth
Concerto
for
the
first
time
—
she
knew
that
she
was
hearing
it
now
,
hearing
it
rise
from
the
keyboard
of
a
piano
,
in
the
clear
,
sharp
chords
of
someone
’
s
powerful
,
confident
touch
.
She
snapped
the
question
at
his
face
,
as
if
hoping
to
catch
him
unprepared
:
"
That
’
s
the
Fifth
Concerto
by
Richard
Halley
,
isn
’
t
it
?
"
"
Yes
.
"
"
When
did
he
write
it
?
"
"
Why
don
’
t
you
ask
him
that
in
person
?
"
