Judith Althouse
December 25th 07, 09:30 PM
a horse
that smells bad hay. They had left the clearing and were wandering again
through the chequered shade, with their arms round each other's waists
whenever it was wide enough to walk two abreast. He noticed how much softer
her waist seemed to feel now that the sash was gone. They did not speak
above a whisper. Outside the clearing, Julia said, it was better to go
quietly. Presently they had reached the edge of the little wood. She
stopped him.
'Don't go out into the open. There might be someone watching. We're
all right if we keep behind the boughs.'
They were standing in the shade of hazel bushes. The sunlight,
filtering through innumerable leaves, was still hot on their faces. Winston
looked out into the field beyond, and underwent a curious, slow shock of
recognition. He knew it by sight. An old, closebitten pasture, with a
footpath wandering across it and a molehill here and there. In the ragged
hedge on the opposite side the boughs of the elm trees swayed just
perceptibly in the breeze, and their leaves stirred faintly in dense masses
like women's hair. Surely somewhere nearby, but out of sight, there must be
a stream with green pools where dace were swimming?
'
that smells bad hay. They had left the clearing and were wandering again
through the chequered shade, with their arms round each other's waists
whenever it was wide enough to walk two abreast. He noticed how much softer
her waist seemed to feel now that the sash was gone. They did not speak
above a whisper. Outside the clearing, Julia said, it was better to go
quietly. Presently they had reached the edge of the little wood. She
stopped him.
'Don't go out into the open. There might be someone watching. We're
all right if we keep behind the boughs.'
They were standing in the shade of hazel bushes. The sunlight,
filtering through innumerable leaves, was still hot on their faces. Winston
looked out into the field beyond, and underwent a curious, slow shock of
recognition. He knew it by sight. An old, closebitten pasture, with a
footpath wandering across it and a molehill here and there. In the ragged
hedge on the opposite side the boughs of the elm trees swayed just
perceptibly in the breeze, and their leaves stirred faintly in dense masses
like women's hair. Surely somewhere nearby, but out of sight, there must be
a stream with green pools where dace were swimming?
'