-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Стивен Кинг
-
- Кладбище домашних животных
-
- Стр. 351/409
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
It
does
n't
matter
,
his
mind
responded
with
a
shrill
fury
born
of
exhaustion
.
Will
you
get
that
through
your
head
?
It
just
does
n't
matter
!
But
it
does
.
It
does
matter
.
It
's
Gage
in
there
,
not
a
bundle
of
towels
!
He
reached
over
and
gently
began
to
press
his
hands
against
the
canvas
tarpaulin
,
feeling
for
the
contours
underneath
.
He
looked
like
a
blind
man
trying
to
determine
what
a
specific
object
might
be
.
At
last
he
came
upon
a
protuberance
that
could
only
be
Gage
's
nose
--
facing
in
the
right
direction
.
Only
then
could
he
bring
himself
to
put
the
Civic
in
gear
and
start
the
twenty-five-minute
drive
back
to
Ludlow
.
At
one
o'clock
that
morning
,
Jud
Crandall
's
telephone
rang
,
shrilling
in
the
empty
house
,
starting
him
awake
.
In
his
doze
he
was
dreaming
,
and
in
the
dream
he
was
twenty-three
again
,
sitting
on
a
bench
in
the
B&A
coupling
shed
with
George
Chapin
and
Rene
Michaud
,
the
three
of
them
passing
around
a
bottle
of
Georgia
Charger
whiskey
--
jumped-up
moonshine
with
a
revenue
stamp
on
it
--
while
outside
a
nor
'
easter
blew
its
randy
shriek
over
the
world
,
silencing
all
that
moved
,
including
the
rolling
stock
of
the
B&A
railroad
.
So
they
sat
and
drank
around
the
potbellied
Defiant
,
watching
the
red
glow
of
the
coals
shift
and
change
behind
the
cloudy
isinglass
,
casting
diamond-shaped
flame
shadows
across
the
floor
,
telling
the
stories
which
men
hold
inside
for
years
like
the
junk
treasures
boys
store
under
their
beds
,
the
stories
they
store
up
for
nights
such
as
this
.
Like
the
glow
of
the
Defiant
,
these
were
dark
stories
with
a
glow
of
red
at
the
center
of
each
and
the
wind
to
wrap
them
around
.
He
was
twenty-three
,
and
Norma
was
very
much
alive
(
although
in
bed
now
,
he
had
no
doubt
;
she
would
not
expect
him
home
this
wild
night
)
,
and
Rene
Michaud
was
telling
a
story
about
a
Jew
peddler
in
Bucksport
who
--
That
was
when
the
phone
began
to
ring
and
he
jerked
up
in
his
chair
,
wincing
at
the
stiffness
in
his
neck
,
feeling
a
sour
heaviness
drop
into
him
like
a
stone
--
it
was
,
he
thought
,
all
those
years
between
twenty-three
and
eighty-three
,
all
sixty
of
them
,
dropping
into
him
at
once
.
And
on
the
heels
of
that
thought
:
You
been
sleepin
,
boyo
.
That
's
no
way
to
run
this
railroad
.
.
.
not
tonight
.
He
got
up
,
holding
himself
straight
against
the
stiffness
that
had
also
settled
into
his
back
,
and
crossed
to
the
phone
.
It
was
Rachel
.
"
Jud
?
Has
he
come
home
?
"
