-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Терри Пратчетт
-
- Мор - ученик смерти
-
- Стр. 309/357
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
There
should
be
a
word
for
that
brief
period
just
after
waking
when
the
mind
is
full
of
warm
pink
nothing
.
You
lie
there
entirely
empty
of
thought
,
except
for
a
growing
suspicion
that
heading
towards
you
,
like
a
sockful
of
damp
sand
in
a
nocturnal
alleyway
,
are
all
the
recollections
you
’
d
really
rather
do
without
,
and
which
amount
to
the
fact
that
the
only
mitigating
factor
in
your
horrible
future
is
the
certainty
that
it
will
be
quite
short
.
Mort
sat
up
and
put
his
hands
on
top
of
his
head
to
stop
it
unscrewing
.
The
sand
beside
him
heaved
and
Ysabell
pushed
herself
into
a
sitting
position
.
Her
hair
was
full
of
sand
and
her
face
was
grimy
with
pyramid
dust
.
Some
of
her
hair
had
frizzled
at
the
tips
.
She
stared
listlessly
at
him
.
’
Did
you
hit
me
?
’
he
said
,
gently
testing
his
jaw
.
’
Yes
.
’
’
Oh
.
’
He
looked
at
the
sky
,
as
though
it
could
remind
him
about
things
.
He
had
to
be
somewhere
,
soon
,
he
recalled
.
Then
he
remembered
something
else
.
Thank
you
,
’
he
said
.
’
Any
time
,
I
assure
you
.
’
Ysabell
made
it
to
her
feet
and
tried
to
brush
the
dirt
and
cobwebs
off
her
dress
.
’
Are
we
going
to
rescue
this
princess
of
yours
?
’
she
said
diffidently
.
