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- Рэй Брэдбери
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- 451 по фаренгейту
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- Стр. 8/158
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What
incredible
power
of
identification
the
girl
had
;
she
was
like
the
eager
watcher
of
a
marionette
show
,
anticipating
each
flicker
of
an
eyelid
,
each
gesture
of
his
hand
,
each
flick
of
a
finger
,
the
moment
before
it
began
.
How
long
had
they
walked
together
?
Three
minutes
?
Five
?
Yet
how
large
that
time
seemed
now
.
How
immense
a
figure
she
was
on
the
stage
before
him
;
what
a
shadow
she
threw
on
the
wall
with
her
slender
body
!
He
felt
that
if
his
eye
itched
,
she
might
blink
.
And
if
the
muscles
of
his
jaws
stretched
imperceptibly
,
she
would
yawn
long
before
he
would
.
Why
,
he
thought
,
now
that
I
think
of
it
,
she
almost
seemed
to
be
waiting
for
me
there
,
in
the
street
,
so
damned
late
at
night
...
.
He
opened
the
bedroom
door
.
It
was
like
coming
into
the
cold
marbled
room
of
a
mausoleum
after
the
moon
had
set
.
Complete
darkness
,
not
a
hint
of
the
silver
world
outside
,
the
windows
tightly
shut
,
the
chamber
a
tomb
-
world
where
no
sound
from
the
great
city
could
penetrate
.
The
room
was
not
empty
.
He
listened
.
The
little
mosquito-delicate
dancing
hum
in
the
air
,
the
electrical
murmur
of
a
hidden
wasp
snug
in
its
special
pink
warm
nest
.
The
music
was
almost
loud
enough
so
he
could
follow
the
tune
.
He
felt
his
smile
slide
away
,
melt
,
fold
over
,
and
down
on
itself
like
a
tallow
skin
,
like
the
stuff
of
a
fantastic
candle
burning
too
long
and
now
collapsing
and
now
blown
out
.
Darkness
.
He
was
not
happy
.
He
was
not
happy
.
He
said
the
words
to
himself
.
He
recognized
this
as
the
true
state
of
affairs
.
He
wore
his
happiness
like
a
mask
and
the
girl
had
run
off
across
the
lawn
with
the
mask
and
there
was
no
way
of
going
to
knock
on
her
door
and
ask
for
it
back
.
Without
turning
on
the
light
he
imagined
how
this
room
would
look
.
His
wife
stretched
on
the
bed
,
uncovered
and
cold
,
like
a
body
displayed
on
the
lid
of
a
tomb
,
her
eyes
fixed
to
the
ceiling
by
invisible
threads
of
steel
,
immovable
.
And
in
her
ears
the
little
Seashells
,
the
thimble
radios
tamped
tight
,
and
an
electronic
ocean
of
sound
,
of
music
and
talk
and
music
and
talk
coming
in
,
coming
in
on
the
shore
of
her
unsleeping
mind
.
The
room
was
indeed
empty
.
Every
night
the
waves
came
in
and
bore
her
off
on
their
great
tides
of
sound
,
floating
her
,
wide-eyed
,
toward
morning
.
There
had
been
no
night
in
the
last
two
years
that
Mildred
had
not
swum
that
sea
,
had
not
gladly
gone
down
in
it
for
the
third
time
.
The
room
was
cold
but
nonetheless
he
felt
he
could
not
breathe
.
He
did
not
wish
to
open
the
curtains
and
open
the
french
windows
,
for
he
did
not
want
the
moon
to
come
into
the
room
.
So
,
with
the
feeling
of
a
man
who
will
die
in
the
next
hour
for
lack
of
air
,
he
felt
his
way
toward
his
open
,
separate
,
and
therefore
cold
bed
.
