"He doesn't hire you out of kindness," Owen said, climbing down. He picked up a few scraps of bread and some pebbles from the floor to demonstrate his point. "He hires you because your sweat turns into his gold. You are the ones giving him a gift every single day. You are the world's greatest givers, dressed in rags."
As the sun began to set, casting long shadows through the bare windows of the Great House, the men packed their tools. They walked home through the biting wind, shoulders hunched, thinking of the meager stew waiting for them—proud of a hard day's work, never realizing they had just handed over their future to a man who would never even learn their names. filantropy v rvanykh shtanakh fb2 skachat
"We’re lucky to have the work!" grunted Harlow, slapping a fresh layer of distemper onto the wall. "Old man Rushton doesn't have to hire us. He could leave us in the gutter." "He doesn't hire you out of kindness," Owen