was filled with some
kind of heavy, sand-like stuff which yielded wherever you touched it.
'It isn't sugar?' he said.
'Real sugar. Not saccharine, sugar. And here's a loaf of bread --
proper white bread, not our bloody stuff -- and a little pot of jam. And
here's a tin of milk -- but look! This is the one I'm really proud of. I
had to wrap a bit of sacking round it, because--'
But she did not need to tell him why she had wrapped it up. The smell
was already filling the room, a rich hot smell which seemed like an
emanation from his early childhood, but which one did occasionally meet
with even now, blowing down a passage-way before a door slammed, or
diffusing itself mysteriously in a crowded street, sniffed for an instant
and then lost again.
'It's coffee,' he murmured, 'real coffee.'
'It's Inner Party coffee. There's a whole kilo here,' she said.
'How did you manage to get hold of all these things?'
'It's all Inner Party stuff. There's nothing those swine don't have,
nothing. But of course waiters and servants and people pinch things, and --
look, I got a little packet of tea as well.'
Winston had squatted down beside her. He tore open a corner of the
packet.
'It's real tea. Not blackberry leaves.'
'There's been a lot of tea about lately. They've captured India, or
something,' she said vaguely. 'But listen, dear. I want you to turn your
back on me for three minutes. Go and sit on the other side of the bed.
Don't go too near the window. And don't turn round till I tell you.'
Winston gazed abstractedly through the muslin curtain. Down in the
yard the red-armed woman was still marching to and fro between the washtub
and the line. She took two more pegs out of her mouth and sang with deep
feeling:

They sye that time 'eals all things,
They sye you can always forget;
But the s