-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Терри Пратчетт
-
- Мор - ученик смерти
-
- Стр. 116/357
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
There
were
few
ocean
-
going
ships
on
the
Disc
.
No
captain
liked
to
venture
out
of
sight
of
a
coastline
.
It
was
a
sorry
fact
that
ships
which
looked
from
a
distance
as
though
they
were
going
over
the
edge
of
the
world
weren
’
t
in
fact
disappearing
over
the
horizon
,
they
were
in
fact
dropping
over
the
edge
of
the
world
.
Every
generation
or
so
a
few
enthusiastic
explorers
doubted
this
and
set
out
to
prove
it
wrong
.
Strangely
enough
,
none
of
them
had
ever
come
back
to
announce
the
result
of
their
researches
.
The
following
analogy
would
,
therefore
,
have
been
meaningless
to
Mort
.
He
felt
as
if
he
’
d
been
shipwrecked
on
the
Titanic
but
in
the
nick
of
time
had
been
rescued
.
By
the
Lusitonia
.
He
felt
as
though
he
’
d
thrown
a
snowball
on
the
spur
of
the
moment
and
watched
the
ensuing
avalanche
engulf
three
ski
resorts
.
He
felt
history
unravelling
all
around
him
.
He
felt
he
needed
someone
to
talk
to
,
quickly
.
That
had
to
mean
either
Albert
or
Ysabell
,
because
the
thought
of
explaining
everything
to
those
tiny
blue
pinpoints
was
not
one
he
cared
to
contemplate
after
a
long
night
.
On
the
rare
occasions
Ysabell
deigned
to
look
in
his
direction
she
made
it
clear
that
the
only
difference
between
Mort
and
a
dead
toad
was
the
colour
.
As
for
Albert
.
.
.
.
All
right
,
not
the
perfect
confidant
,
but
definitely
the
best
in
a
field
of
one
.
Mort
slid
down
the
steps
and
threaded
his
way
back
through
the
bookshelves
.
A
few
hours
’
sleep
would
be
a
good
idea
,
too
.
