Hvem var han

there and asked awkward
questions. However, no patrols had appeared, and on the walk from the
station he had made sure by cautious backward glances that he was not being
followed. The train was full of proles, in holiday mood because of the
summery weather. The wooden-seated carriage in which he travelled was
filled to overflowing by a single enormous family, ranging from a toothless
great-grandmother to a month-old baby, going out to spend an afternoon with
'in-laws' in the country, and, as they freely explained to Winston, to get
hold of a little blackmarket butter.
The lane widened, and in a minute he came to the footpath she had told
him of, a mere cattle-track which plunged between the bushes. He had no
watch, but it could not be fifteen yet. The bluebells were so thick
underfoot that it was impossible not to tread on them. He knelt down and
began picking some partly to pass the time away, but also from a vague idea
that he would like to have a bunch of flowers to offer to the girl when
they met. He had got together a big bunch and was smelling their faint
sickly scent when a sound at his back froze him, the unmistakable crackle
of a foot on twigs. He went on picking bluebells. It was the best thing to
do. It might be the girl, or he might have been followed after all. To look
round was to show guilt. He picked another and another. A hand fell lightly
on his shoulder.
He looked up. It was the girl. She shook her head, evidently as a
warning that he must keep silent, then parted the bushes a