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- 451 по фаренгейту
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"
Are
you
drunk
?
"
she
said
.
So
it
was
the
hand
that
started
it
all
.
He
felt
one
hand
and
then
the
other
work
his
coat
free
and
let
it
slump
to
the
floor
.
He
held
his
pants
out
into
an
abyss
and
let
them
fall
into
darkness
.
His
hands
had
been
infected
,
and
soon
it
would
be
his
arms
.
He
could
feel
the
poison
working
up
his
wrists
and
into
his
elbows
and
his
shoulders
,
and
then
the
jump-over
from
shoulder-blade
to
shoulder-blade
like
a
spark
leaping
a
gap
.
His
hands
were
ravenous
.
And
his
eyes
were
beginning
to
feel
hunger
,
as
if
they
must
look
at
something
,
anything
,
everything
.
His
wife
said
,
"
What
are
you
doing
?
"
He
balanced
in
space
with
the
book
in
his
sweating
cold
fingers
.
A
minute
later
she
said
,
"
Well
,
just
do
n't
stand
there
in
the
middle
of
the
floor
.
"
He
made
a
small
sound
.
"
What
?
"
she
asked
.
He
made
more
soft
sounds
.
He
stumbled
towards
the
bed
and
shoved
the
book
clumsily
under
the
cold
pillow
.
He
fell
into
bed
and
his
wife
cried
out
,
startled
.
He
lay
far
across
the
room
from
her
,
on
a
winter
island
separated
by
an
empty
sea
.
She
talked
to
him
for
what
seemed
a
long
while
and
she
talked
about
this
and
she
talked
about
that
and
it
was
only
words
,
like
the
words
he
had
heard
once
in
a
nursery
at
a
friend
's
house
,
a
two-year-old
child
building
word
patterns
,
talking
jargon
,
making
pretty
sounds
in
the
air
.
But
Montag
said
nothing
and
after
a
long
while
when
he
only
made
the
small
sounds
,
he
felt
her
move
in
the
room
and
come
to
his
bed
and
stand
over
him
and
put
her
hand
down
to
feel
his
cheek
.
He
knew
that
when
she
pulled
her
hand
away
from
his
face
it
was
wet
.
Late
in
the
night
he
looked
over
at
Mildred
.
She
was
awake
.
There
was
a
tiny
dance
of
melody
in
the
air
,
her
Seashell
was
tamped
in
her
ear
again
and
she
was
listening
to
far
people
in
far
places
,
her
eyes
wide
and
staring
at
the
fathoms
of
blackness
above
her
in
the
ceiling
.
