Already a dense mass of people was blocking the south side of the square. Winston， at normal times the kind of person who gravitates to the outer edge of any kind of scrimmage， shoved， butted， squirmed his way forward into the heart of the crowd. Soon he was within arm’s length of the girl， but the way was blocked by an enormous prole and an almost equally enormous woman， presumably his wife， who seemed to form an impenetrable wall of flesh. Winston wriggled himself sideways， and with a violent lunge managed to drive his shoulder between them. For a moment it felt as though his entrails were being ground to pulp between the two muscular hips， then he had broken through， sweating a little. He was next to the girl. They were shoulder to shoulder， both staring fixedly in front of them.
A long line of trucks， with wooden-faced guards armed with sub-machine guns standing upright in each corner， was passing slowly down the street. In the trucks little yellow men in shabby greenish uniforms were squatting， jammed close together. Their sad， Mongolian faces gazed out over the sides of the trucks utterly incurious. Occasionally when a truck jolted there was a clankclank of metal： all the prisoners were wearing leg-irons. Truck-load after truck-load of the sad faces passed. Winston knew they were there but he saw them only intermittently. The girl’s shoulder， and her arm right down to the elbow， were pressed against his. Her cheek was almost near enough for him to feel its warmth. She had immediately taken charge of the situation， just as she had done in the canteen. She began speaking in the same expressionless voice as before， with lips barely moving， a mere murmur easily drowned by the din of voices and the rumbling of the trucks.
“Can you hear me？”
“Yes.”
“Can you get Sunday afternoon off？”
“Yes.”
“Then listen carefully. You’ll have to remember this. Go to Paddington Station—”
With a sort of military precision that astonished him， she outlined the route that he was to follow. A half-hour railway journey； turn left outside the station； two kilometres along the road： a gate with the top bar missing； a path across a field； a grass-grown lane； a track between bushes； a dead tree with moss on it. It was as though she had a map inside her head. “Can you remember all that？” she murmured finally.
“Yes.”
“You turn left， then right， then left again. And the gate’s got no top bar.”
“Yes. What time？”
“About fifteen. You may have to wait. I’ll get there by another way. Are you sure you remember everything？”
“Yes.”
“Then get away from me as quick as you can.”
She need not have told him that. But for the moment they could not extricate themselves from the crowd. The trucks were still filing post， the people still insatiably gaping. At the start there had been a few boos and hisses， but it came only from the Party members among the crowd， and had soon stopped. The prevailing emotion was simply curiosity. Foreigners， whether from Eurasia or from Eastasia， were a kind of strange animal. One literally never saw them except in the guise of prisoners， and even as prisoners one never got more than a momentary glimpse of them. Nor did one know what became of them， apart from the few who were hanged as war-criminals： te others simply vanished， presumably into forced-labour camps. The round Mogol faces had given way to faces of a more European type， dirty， bearded and exhausted. From over scrubby cheekbones eyes looked into Winston’s， sometimes with strange intensity， and flashed away again. The convoy was drawing to an end. In the last truck he could see an aged man， his face a mass of grizzled hair， standing upright with wrists crossed in front of him， as though he were used to having them bound together. It was almost time for Winston and the girl to part. But at the last moment， while the crowd still hemmed them in， her hand felt for his and gave it a fleeting squeeze.
It could not have been ten seconds， and yet it seemed a long time that their hands were clasped together. He had time to learn every detail of her hand. He explored the long fingers， the shapely nails， the work-hardened palm with its row of callouses， the smooth flesh under the wrist. Merely from feeling it he would have known it by sight. In the same instant it occurred to him that he did not know what colour the girl’s eyes were. They were probably brown， but people with dark hair sometimes had blue eyes. To turn his head and look at her would have been inconceivable folly. With hands locked together， invisible among the press of bodies， they stared steadily in front of them， and instead of the eyes of the girl， the eyes of the aged prisoner gazed mournfully at Winston out of nests of hair.
英文十
Winston picked his way up the lane through dappled light and shade， stepping out into pools of gold wherever the boughs parted. Under the trees to the left of him the ground was misty with bluebells. The air seemed to kiss one’s skin. It was the second of May. From somewhere deeper in the heart of the wood came the droning of ring doves.
