Atlas Shrugged

by Ayn Rand

settled

haughtily.

They were both incapable of the conception that joy is sin.

It was still pride, without regret or hope, an emotion that had no power to reach her and that she had no power to destroy.

When he moved his glance from her wrist to her face, he found her looking at him. Her eyes were narrowed and he could not define their expression; it was a look that seemed both veiled and purposeful, the look of something hidden that flaunted its security from detection.

Heads turned to watch him, as if he pulled them on strings in his wake. Approaching

she knew his face well enough to see the effort his calm cost him—she saw the faint line of a muscle pulled tight across his cheek.