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

He cracked his neck with the heel of his hand and gave a satisfied yawn. "It's
all part of the cycle, friends and neighbors. What goes around, comes around."
He rose, examined his ugly, guitar player's fingernails, stretched his lean body
left and right, and left the room. "Oh, the wavelengths of rapture! Sweet-home
California!" he called back from the doorway and then he was gone.
"He does that on purpose," muttered Martha. "He can talk perfectly good English
when he wants to. I think it's important to him to have some strong ethnic
identity."
Elen Evans giggled. "I asked him why the hell he wanted to play Celtoid
traditional, when his heart is so purely new age, and you know what he said?
Jigs and hornpipes ground him. Me, they knock flat on my keister!"
Martha sighed. "And yet Teddy plays his part very well. He has an ear for the
traditional sound and he makes no ruckus. Doesn't seem to go into turmoil likeЕ
some."
She grunted and drummed her fingers on her knee. "What grounds him is grinding
me down, I think."
Long spoke with some asperity. "That is not the music, Martha, but the
musicians. You should take some privilege as well as responsibility from your
position. Forbid George to bother you."
"ForbidЕ" Martha uttered a one-syllable laugh that was more than half a choke.
"My dear, to stop George from 'bothering' would be simply to stop him from
existing!"
"I agree," added Elen. "St. Ives's basic essenceЕ"
"His interest is to convince you all of that, but really he is as capable as the
next fellow of coming to terms withЕ"
"Dock his wage," suggested Pсdraig, with a shade of malice.
Martha put her back to the wall and tucked her skirt neatly around her legs. "I
forbid you all to bother me further about this," she said.
"Oops," said Elen, and they all relapsed into silence.
The walls of the motel room were white, brightened by the light of sky, sea, and
pavement. Occupied as it was by slumped figures and dull faces, it might have
been a dentist's waiting room. Marty Frisch-Macnamara hopped over and pulled the
Levolor blind awry to look out at the beach and the Santa Cruz pier. The others,
deprived of their wrangle, hadn't as much energy. They looked at each other.
"I'm sorry," said Pсdraig, speaking to Elen. "To be at hitting people in front
of you. I'm not a brute."
Her small dark face went round through astonishment. "A brute? You, Pat? Perish
forfend!"
Pсdraig shifted uncomfortably, because he wasn't quite sure what she had said.
His blue jeans gapped a bit at the waist, for Pсdraig ╙ S·illeabhсin had lost
weight on this tour.
Martha, leaning against the headboard of the other bed, slapped both hands on
her knees. "Eight weeks," she repeated. "This tour has lasted for eight weeks
and taken in nineteen American states plus B.C. I think no one is responsible
for anything he or she has said or done in a long while. Except me, for making
you all go through this."
Mayland Long turned toward her. Such was the peculiarity of his attenuated frame
that it seemed not only his head and neck that twisted about, but his whole
torso. Sunlight glowed against his suit of raw silk and made his pale eyes
almost yellow, but the brightness could not touch the skin of his face and