-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Стивен Кинг
-
- Сияние
-
- Стр. 257/529
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
The
door
would
not
open
,
would
not
,
would
not
,
would
not
.
And
then
the
voice
of
Dick
Hallorann
came
to
him
,
so
sudden
and
unexpected
,
so
calm
,
that
his
locked
vocal
cords
opened
and
he
began
to
cry
weakly
-
not
with
fear
but
with
blessed
relief
.
(
I
don
’
t
think
they
can
hurt
you
…
they
’
re
like
pictures
in
a
book
…
close
your
eyes
and
they
’
ll
he
gone
.
)
His
eyelids
snapped
down
.
His
hands
curled
into
balls
.
His
shoulders
hunched
with
the
effort
of
his
concentration
:
(
Nothing
there
nothing
there
not
there
at
all
NOTHING
THERE
THERE
IS
NOTHING
!
)
Time
passed
And
he
was
just
beginning
to
relax
,
just
beginning
to
realize
that
the
door
must
be
unlocked
and
he
could
go
,
when
the
years
-
damp
,
bloated
,
fish
-
smelling
hands
closed
softly
around
his
throat
and
he
was
turned
implacably
around
to
stare
into
that
dead
and
purple
face
.
Knitting
made
her
sleepy
.
Today
even
Bartok
would
have
made
her
sleepy
,
and
it
wasn
’
t
Bartok
on
the
little
phonograph
,
it
was
Bach
.
Her
hands
grew
slower
and
slower
,
and
at
the
time
her
son
was
making
the
acquaintance
of
Room
217
’
s
longterm
resident
,
Wendy
was
asleep
with
her
knitting
on
her
lap
.
The
yarn
and
needles
rose
in
the
slow
time
of
her
breathing
.
Her
sleep
was
deep
and
she
did
not
dream
.
*
*
*
Jack
Torrance
had
fallen
asleep
too
,
but
his
sleep
was
light
and
uneasy
,
populated
by
dreams
that
seemed
too
vivid
to
be
mere
dreams
-
they
were
certainly
more
vivid
than
any
dreams
he
had
ever
had
before
.
