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"
It
does
n't
think
anything
we
do
n't
want
it
to
think
.
"
"
That
's
sad
,
"
said
Montag
,
quietly
,
"
because
all
we
put
into
it
is
hunting
and
finding
and
killing
.
What
a
shame
if
that
's
all
it
can
ever
know
.
"
'
Beatty
snorted
,
gently
.
"
Hell
!
It
's
a
fine
bit
of
craftsmanship
,
a
good
rifle
that
can
fetch
its
own
target
and
guarantees
the
bull
's
-
eye
every
time
.
"
"
That
's
why
,
"
said
Montag
.
"
I
would
n't
want
to
be
its
next
victim
.
"
Why
?
You
got
a
guilty
conscience
about
something
?
"
Montag
glanced
up
swiftly
.
Beatty
stood
there
looking
at
him
steadily
with
his
eyes
,
while
his
mouth
opened
and
began
to
laugh
,
very
softly
.
One
two
three
four
five
six
seven
days
.
And
as
many
times
he
came
out
of
the
house
and
Clarisse
was
there
somewhere
in
the
world
.
Once
he
saw
her
shaking
a
walnut
tree
,
once
he
saw
her
sitting
on
the
lawn
knitting
a
blue
sweater
,
three
or
four
times
he
found
a
bouquet
of
late
flowers
on
his
porch
,
or
a
handful
of
chestnuts
in
a
little
sack
,
or
some
autumn
leaves
neatly
pinned
to
a
sheet
of
white
paper
and
thumb-tacked
to
his
door
.
Every
day
Clarisse
walked
him
to
the
corner
.
One
day
it
was
raining
,
the
next
it
was
clear
,
the
day
after
that
the
wind
blew
strong
,
and
the
day
after
that
it
was
mild
and
calm
,
and
the
day
after
that
calm
day
was
a
day
like
a
furnace
of
summer
and
Clarisse
with
her
face
all
sunburnt
by
late
afternoon
.
"
Why
is
it
,
"
he
said
,
one
time
,
at
the
subway
entrance
,
"
I
feel
I
've
known
you
so
many
years
?
"
"
Because
I
like
you
,
"
she
said
,
"
and
I
do
n't
want
anything
from
you
.
And
because
we
know
each
other
.
"
