"MacAvoy,.R.A.-.Black.Dragon.2.-.Twisting.The.Rope.e-txt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dragon Stories)

while the index finger of his right was stiffly pointing at the ceiling. His
hair, bleached in layers from straw to medium brown, slid forward off his
shoulder and hung by his face. His beard jutted forward. His eyes were vaguely
reproachful.
Elen Evans had a face of great delicacy and short hair cut with wisps around the
ears and down the neck. She lofted a two-foot-long iron piano-tuning wrench with
a wooden handle, which she had been using on her triple harp. Her expression was
ironical.
Martha Macnamara, exactly thirty years older than Elen, was caught with a paper
cup in her hand. She looked flustered and slightly apelike, with her round eyes
and open mouth. She thought the words "oh, dear" and she wondered if there was
going to be a brawl. She was also a bit glad (glad in spite of herself) that
Pсdraig had pounded the table in that way: hard, loud, and just at the moment he
had wanted to.
Seated in the corner by the Formica table was a slight middle-aged man with
black skin and Chinese eyes. The light of the wicker-shaded lamp put a shine on
his black hair. His name was Long, and he held a three-year-old girl on his lap.
This child's blue eyes were open very wide as she stared at Pсdraig ╙
S·illeabhсin.
Pсdraig himself was the sixth person frozen by the violence of his action. He
was a young man who looked still younger, and a shade of purple spread from his
ears to his face and down both sides of his neck. His fist, rough-chapped and
very clean, slowly relaxed on the tabletop and then clenched again.
The little girl broke the silence. "Why did Poe-rik hit the table? Did he want
to hitЧ" The remarkably long fingers of the dark man's hand curled over her
mouth. Leaning down, he whispered something into her ear and then bounced her
twice, forcefully.
The seventh person in the roomЧthe one who was not shocked by Pсdraig's
outburstЧwas holding him up, with the neckband of the boy's sweater turned
inside out, and was examining the tag with a show of interest. He raised his
eyes now as Pсdraig craned about and glared at him.
"No need to lose control, boy," said George St. Ives. "I was just curious why a
traditional musician, or at least what passes for traditional these days, and
what passes for aЕ Well, anyway, haven't we got enough plastic in the world
around us already without wearing the stuff in front of people?"
Pсdraig opened his mouth, but there was a brief pause before he replied: a pause
of uncertainty. "I thoughtЕ I thought that I would do better to try to look nice
in front of people. Instead of looking like I was after digging a hole
somewhere."
George St. Ives had gray eyes surrounded by wrinkles, and his forehead wrinkled
as he held the overstretched fabric up to his face. "'One hundred percent
acrylic. Machine wash cold. Cool dryer. No bleach.' Red plastic with
five-pointed stars in some sort of metallic thread. Wouldn't be very suited for
digging a hole, would it? Nor for any other manly activity." His voice was
gravelly but expressionless. His heavy face was a bit yellow.
"I can wash it." Pсdraig wrested his sweater out of the older man's grip and
started to stand up. "If it were bсinэn, how could I, in all these hotels?" His
chair fell over. The pulling had left a sag in the back of his sweater. He
looked foolish and knew it.
St. Ives watched Pсdraig's distraction dispassionately and he smiled. "Did some