-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Терри Пратчетт
-
- Мор - ученик смерти
-
- Стр. 161/357
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
The
barrier
worried
him
.
He
could
see
it
creeping
across
the
field
behind
the
trees
.
Mort
was
on
the
point
of
urging
Binky
back
into
the
air
when
he
saw
the
light
immediately
ahead
of
him
,
warm
and
beckoning
.
It
was
spilling
from
the
windows
of
a
large
building
set
back
from
the
road
.
It
was
probably
a
cheerful
sort
of
light
in
any
case
,
but
in
these
surroundings
and
compared
with
Mort
’
s
mood
it
was
positively
ecstatic
.
As
he
rode
nearer
he
saw
shadows
moving
against
it
,
and
made
out
a
few
snatches
of
song
.
It
was
an
inn
,
and
inside
there
were
people
having
a
good
time
,
or
what
passed
for
a
good
time
if
you
were
a
peasant
who
spent
most
of
your
time
closely
concerned
with
cabbages
.
Compared
to
brassicas
,
practically
anything
is
fun
.
There
were
human
beings
in
there
,
doing
uncomplicated
human
things
like
getting
drunk
and
forgetting
the
words
of
songs
.
Mort
had
never
really
felt
homesick
,
possibly
because
his
mind
had
been
too
occupied
with
other
things
.
But
he
felt
it
now
for
the
first
time
–
a
sort
of
longing
,
not
for
a
place
,
but
for
a
state
of
mind
,
for
being
just
an
ordinary
human
being
with
straightforward
things
to
worry
about
,
like
money
and
sickness
and
other
people
.
.
.
.
’
I
shall
have
a
drink
,
’
he
thought
,
’
and
perhaps
I
shall
feel
better
.
’
There
was
an
open
-
fronted
stable
at
one
side
of
the
main
building
,
and
he
led
Binky
into
the
warm
,
horse
-
smelling
darkness
that
already
accommodated
three
other
horses
.
As
Mort
unfastened
the
nosebag
he
wondered
if
Death
’
s
horse
felt
the
same
way
about
other
horses
which
had
rather
less
supernatural
lifestyles
.
He
certainly
looked
impressive
compared
to
the
others
,
which
regarded
him
watchfully
.
Binky
was
a
real
horse
–
the
blisters
of
the
shovel
handle
on
Mort
’
s
hands
were
a
testimony
to
that
–
and
compared
to
the
others
he
looked
more
real
than
ever
.
More
solid
.
More
horsey
.
Slightly
larger
than
life
.
In
fact
,
Mort
was
on
the
verge
of
making
an
important
deduction
,
and
it
is
unfortunate
that
he
was
distracted
,
as
he
walked
across
the
yard
to
the
inn
’
s
low
door
,
by
the
sight
of
the
inn
sign
.
Its
artist
hadn
’
t
been
particularly
gifted
,
but
there
was
no
mistaking
the
line
of
Keli
’
s
jaw
or
her
mass
of
fiery
hair
in
the
portrait
of
The
Quene
’
s
Hed
.
He
sighed
,
and
pushed
open
the
door
.
As
one
man
,
the
assembled
company
stopped
talking
and
stared
at
him
with
the
honest
rural
stare
that
suggests
that
for
two
pins
they
’
ll
hit
you
around
the
head
with
a
shovel
and
bury
your
body
under
a
compost
heap
at
full
moon
.
