it and become inquisitive. What was even
better than the taste of the coffee was the silky texture given to it by
the sugar, a thing Winston had almost forgotten after years of saccharine.
With one hand in her pocket and a piece of bread and jam in the other,
Julia wandered about the room, glancing indifferently at the bookcase,
pointing out the best way of repairing the gateleg table, plumping herself
down in the ragged arm-chair to see if it was comfortable, and examining
the absurd twelve-hour clock with a sort of tolerant amusement. She brought
the glass paperweight over to the bed to have a look at it in a better
light. He took it out of her hand, fascinated, as always, by the soft,
rainwatery appearance of the glass.
'What is it, do you think?' said Julia.
'I don't think it's anything -- I mean, I don't think it was ever put
to any use. That's what I like about it. It's a little chunk of history
that they've forgotten to alter. It's a message from a hundred years ago,
if one knew how to read it.'
'And that picture over there' -- she nodded at the engraving on the
opposite wall -- 'would that be a hundred years old?'
'More. Two hundred, I dare say. One can't tell. It's impossible to
discover the age of anything nowadays.'
She went over to look at it. 'Here's where that brute stuck his nose
out,' she said, kicking the wainscoting immediately below the picture.
'What is this place? I've seen it before somewhere.'
'It's a church, or at least it used to be. St. Clement's Danes its
name was.' The fragment of rhyme that Mr. Charrington had taught him came
back into his head, and he added half-nostalgically: "Oranges and lemons,"
say the bells of St. Clement's!'
To his astonishment she capped the line:

'You owe me three farthings,' say the bells of St. Martin's,
'When will you pay me?' say the bells of Old Bailey--

'I can't