Dick Hoogendijk
December 25th 07, 06:08 PM
up. But it was all right. Five
seconds later, with a thundering heart, Winston was sitting at the girl's
table.
He did not look at her. He unpacked his tray and promptly began
eating. It was all-important to speak at once, before anyone else came, but
now a terrible fear had taken possession of him. A week had gone by since
she had first approached him. She would have changed her mind, she must
have changed her mind! It was impossible that this affair should end
successfully; such things did not happen in real life. He might have
flinched altogether from speaking if at this moment he had not seen
Ampleforth, the hairy-eared poet, wandering limply round the room with a
tray, looking for a place to sit down. In his vague way Ampleforth was
attached to Winston, and would certainly sit down at his table if he caught
sight of him. There was perhaps a minute in which to act. Both Winston and
the girl were eating steadily. The stuff they were eating was a thin stew,
actually a soup, of haricot beans. In a low murmur Winston began speaking.
Neither of them looked up; steadily they spooned the watery stuff into
their mouths, and between spoonfuls exchanged the few necessary words in
low expressionless voices.
'What time do you leave work?'
'Eighteen-thirty.'
'Where can we meet?'
'Victory Square, near the monument.'
'It's full of telescreens.'
'It doesn't matter if there's a crowd.'
'Any signal?'
'No. Don't come up to me until you see me among a lot of people. And
don't look at me. Just keep somewhere near me.'
'What time?'
'Nineteen hours.'
'All right.'
Ampleforth failed to see Winston and sat down at another table. They
did not speak again, and, so far as it was possible for two people sitting
on opposite sides of the same table, they did not look at one another. The
girl finished he
seconds later, with a thundering heart, Winston was sitting at the girl's
table.
He did not look at her. He unpacked his tray and promptly began
eating. It was all-important to speak at once, before anyone else came, but
now a terrible fear had taken possession of him. A week had gone by since
she had first approached him. She would have changed her mind, she must
have changed her mind! It was impossible that this affair should end
successfully; such things did not happen in real life. He might have
flinched altogether from speaking if at this moment he had not seen
Ampleforth, the hairy-eared poet, wandering limply round the room with a
tray, looking for a place to sit down. In his vague way Ampleforth was
attached to Winston, and would certainly sit down at his table if he caught
sight of him. There was perhaps a minute in which to act. Both Winston and
the girl were eating steadily. The stuff they were eating was a thin stew,
actually a soup, of haricot beans. In a low murmur Winston began speaking.
Neither of them looked up; steadily they spooned the watery stuff into
their mouths, and between spoonfuls exchanged the few necessary words in
low expressionless voices.
'What time do you leave work?'
'Eighteen-thirty.'
'Where can we meet?'
'Victory Square, near the monument.'
'It's full of telescreens.'
'It doesn't matter if there's a crowd.'
'Any signal?'
'No. Don't come up to me until you see me among a lot of people. And
don't look at me. Just keep somewhere near me.'
'What time?'
'Nineteen hours.'
'All right.'
Ampleforth failed to see Winston and sat down at another table. They
did not speak again, and, so far as it was possible for two people sitting
on opposite sides of the same table, they did not look at one another. The
girl finished he