'Oranges and lemons,' say the bells of St. Clement's,
'You owe me three farthings,' say the--

Suddenly his heart seemed to turn to ice and his bowels to water. A
figure in blue overalls was coming down the pavement, not ten metres away.
It was the girl from the Fiction Department, the girl with dark hair. The
light was failing, but there was no difficulty in recognizing her. She
looked him straight in the face, then walked quickly on as though she had
not seen him.
For a few seconds Winston was too paralysed to move. Then he turned to
the right and walked heavily away, not noticing for the moment that he was
going in the wrong direction. At any rate, one question was settled. There
was no doubting any longer that the girl was spying on him. She must have
followed him here, because it was not credible that by pure chance she
should have happened to be walking on the same evening up the same obscure
backstreet, kilometres distant from any quarter where Party members lived.
It was too great a coincidence. Whether she was really an agent of the
Thought Police, or simply an amateur spy actuated by officiousness, hardly
mattered. It was enough that she was watching him. Probably she had seen
him go into the pub as well.
It was an effort to walk. The lump of glass in his pocket banged
against his thigh at each step, and he was half minded to take it out and
throw it away. The worst thing was the pain in his belly. For a couple of
minutes he had the feeling that he would die if he did not reach a lavatory
soon. But there would be no pu