“They can’t get inside you，”she had said. But they could get inside you.“What happens to you here is for ever，”O’Brien had said. That was a true word. There were things， your own acts， from which you could never recover. Something was killed in your breast： burnt out， cauterized out.
He had seen her； he had even spoken to her. There was no danger in it. He knew as though instinctively that they now took almost no interest in his doings. He could have arranged to meet her a second time if either of them had wanted to. Actually it was by chance that they had met. It was in the Park， on a vile， biting day in March， when the earth was like iron and all the grass seemed dead and there was not a bud anywhere except a few crocuses which had pushed themselves up to be dismembered by the wind. He was hurrying along with frozen hands and watering eyes when he saw her not ten metres away from him. It struck him at once that she had changed in some ill-defined way. They almost passed one another without a sign， then he turned and followed her， not very eagerly. He knew that there was no danger， nobody would take any interest in him. She did not speak. She walked obliquely away across the grass as though trying to get rid of him， then seemed to resign herself to having him at her side. Presently they were in among a clump of ragged leafless shrubs， useless either for concealment or as protection from the wind. They halted. It was vilely cold. The wind whistled through the twigs and fretted the occasional， dirty-looking crocuses. He put his arm round her waist.
There was no telescreen， but there must be hidden microphones： besides， they could be seen. It did not matter， nothing mattered. They could have lain down on the ground and done that if they had wanted to. His flesh froze with horror at the thought of it. She made no response whatever to the clasp of his arm ； she did not even try to disengage herself. He knew now what had changed in her. Her face was sallower， and there was a long scar， partly hidden by the hair， across her forehead and temple； but that was not the change. It was that her waist had grown thicker， and， in a surprising way， had stiffened. He remembered how once， after the explosion of a rocket bomb， he had helped to drag a corpse out of some ruins， and had been astonished not only by the incredible weight of the thing， but by its rigidity and awkwardness to handle， which made it seem more like stone than flesh. Her body felt like that. It occurred to him that the texture of her skin would be quite different from what it had once been.
He did not attempt to kiss her， nor did they speak. As they walked back across the grass， she looked directly at him for the first time. It was only a momentary glance， full of contempt and dislike. He wondered whether it was a dislike that came purely out of the past or whether it was inspired also by his bloated face and the water that the wind kept squeezing from his eyes. They sat down on two iron chairs， side by side but not too close together. He saw that she was about to speak. She moved her clumsy shoe a few centimetres and deliberately crushed a twig. Her feet seemed to have grown broader， he noticed.
“I betrayed you，”she said baldly.
“I betrayed you，”he said.
She gave him another quick look of dislike.
“Sometimes，”she said，“they threaten you with something something you can’t stand up to， can’t even think about. And then you say， ‘Don’t do it to me， do it to somebody else， do it to So-and-so.’And perhaps you might pretend， afterwards， that it was only a trick and that you just said it to make them stop and didn’t really mean it. But that isn’t true. At the time when it happens you do mean it. You think there’s no other way of saving yourself， and you’re quite ready to save yourself that way. You want it to happen to the other person. You don’t give a damn what they suffer. All you care about is yourself.”
“All you care about is yourself，”he echoed.
“And after that， you don’t feel the same towards the other person any longer.”
“No，”he said，“you don’t feel the same.”
There did not seem to be anything more to say. The wind plastered their thin overalls against their bodies. Almost at once it became embarrassing to sit there in silence： besides， it was too cold to keep still. She said something about catching her Tube and stood up to go.
“We must meet again，”he said.
“Yes，”she said，“we must meet again.”
He followed irresolutely for a little distance， half a pace behind her. They did not speak again. She did not actually try to shake him off， but walked at just such a speed as to prevent his keeping abreast of her. He had made up his mind that he would accompany her as far as the Tube station， but suddenly this process of trailing along in the cold seemed pointless and unbearable. He was overwhelmed by a desire not so much to get away from Julia as to get back to the Chestnut Tree Café， which had never seemed so attractive as at this moment. He had a nostalgic vision of his corner table， with the newspaper and the chessboard and the ever-flowing gin. Above all， it would be warm in there. The next moment， not altogether by accident， he allowed himself to become separated from her by a small knot of people. He made a halfhearted attempt to catch up， then slowed down， turned， and made off in the opposite direction. When he had gone fifty metres he looked back. The street was not crowded， but already he could not distinguish her. Any one of a dozen hurrying figures might have been hers. Perhaps her thickened， stiffened body was no longer recognizable from behind.
“At the time when it happens，”she had said，“you do mean it.”He had meant it. He had not merely said it， he had wished it. He had wished that she and not he should be delivered over to the—
Something changed in the music that trickled from the telescreen. A cracked and jeering note， a yellow note， came into it. And then — perhaps it was not happening， perhaps it was only a memory taking on the semblance of sound — a voice was singing：
