It was like a polite monologue. They said nothing. Faces. The old man. The red-haired woman.
Someone picked up his briefcase. «Whose is this?»
It's mine! It's evidence against all of you!
Eyes, inverted over him. Shiny eyes under tousled hair or under hats.
Faces.
Somewhere―a siren. The ambulance was coming.
But, looking at the faces, the construction, the cast, the form of the faces, Spallner saw it was too late. He read it in their faces. They _knew_.
He tried to speak. A little bit got out:
He closed his eyes then, and waited for the coroner.
FB2 document info
Document ID: ac26be95-5151-46e8-8d4f-a33a88e98894
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 22 May 2011
Created using: FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software
Document authors :
Source URLs :
http://raybradbury.ru/library/originals/
Document history:
1.0 — создание файла
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