-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Терри Пратчетт
-
- Мор - ученик смерти
-
- Стр. 34/357
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
There
was
a
kitchen
on
the
other
side
of
the
door
–
long
,
low
and
warm
,
with
copper
pans
hanging
from
the
ceiling
and
a
vast
black
iron
stove
occupying
the
whole
of
one
long
wall
.
An
old
man
was
standing
in
front
of
it
,
frying
eggs
and
bacon
and
whistling
between
his
teeth
.
The
smell
attracted
Mort
’
s
taste
buds
from
across
the
room
,
hinting
that
if
they
got
together
they
could
really
enjoy
themselves
.
He
found
himself
moving
forward
without
even
consulting
his
legs
.
’
Albert
,
’
snapped
Ysabell
,
’
another
one
for
breakfast
.
’
The
man
turned
his
head
slowly
,
and
nodded
at
her
without
saying
a
word
.
She
turned
back
to
Mort
.
’
I
must
say
,
’
she
said
,
’
that
with
the
whole
Disc
to
choose
from
,
I
should
think
Father
could
have
done
rather
better
than
you
.
I
suppose
you
’
ll
just
have
to
do
.
’
She
swept
out
of
the
room
,
slamming
the
door
behind
her
.
’
Have
to
do
what
?
’
said
Mort
,
to
no
-
one
in
particular
.
The
room
was
silent
,
except
for
the
sizzle
of
the
frying
pan
and
the
crumbling
of
coals
in
the
molten
heart
of
the
stove
.
Mort
saw
that
it
had
the
words
’
The
Little
Moloch
(
Ptntd
)
’
embossed
on
its
oven
door
.
The
cook
didn
’
t
seem
to
notice
him
,
so
Mort
pulled
up
a
chair
and
sat
down
at
the
white
scrubbed
table
.
’
Mushrooms
?
’
said
the
old
man
,
without
looking
around
.
