being alive? Don't you like feeling: This is me, this is my
hand, this is my leg, I'm real, I'm solid, I'm alive! Don't you like this?'
She twisted herself round and pressed her bosom against him. He could
feel her breasts, ripe yet firm, through her overalls. Her body seemed to
be pouring some of its youth and vigour into his.
'Yes, I like that,' he said.
'Then stop talking about dying. And now listen, dear, we've got to fix
up about the next time we meet. We may as well go back to the place in the
wood. We've given it a good long rest. But you must get there by a
different way this time. I've got it all planned out. You take the train --
but look, I'll draw it out for you.'
And in her practical way she scraped together a small square of dust,
and with a twig from a pigeon's nest began drawing a map on the floor.



IV

Winston looked round the shabby little room above Mr. Charrington's
shop. Beside the window the enormous bed was made up, with ragged blankets
and a coverless bolster. The old-fashioned clock with the twelve-hour face
was ticking away on the mantelpiece. In the corner, on the gateleg table,
the glass paperweight which he had bought on his last visit gleamed softly
ou