dreadful days she did not appear at all.
His whole mind and body seemed to be afflicted with an unbearable
sensitivity, a sort of transparency, which made every movement, every
sound, every contact, every word that he had to speak or listen to, an
agony. Even in sleep he could not altogether escape from her image. He did
not touch the diary during those days. If there was any relief, it was in
his work, in which he could sometimes forget himself for ten minutes at a
stretch. He had absolutely no clue as to what had happened to her. There
was no enquiry he could make. She might have been vaporized, she might have
committed suicide, she might have been transferred to the other end of
Oceania: worst and likeliest of all, she might simply have changed her mind
and decided to avoid him.
The next day she reappeared. Her arm was out of the sling and she had
a band of sticking-plaster round her wrist. The relief of seeing her was so
great that he could not resist staring directly at her for several seconds.
On the following day he very nearly succeeded in speaking to her. When he
came into the canteen she was sitting at a table well out from the wall,
and was quite alone. It was early, and the place was not very full. The
queue edged forward till Winston was almost at the counter, then was held
up for two minutes because someone in front was complaining that he had not
received his tablet of saccharine. But the girl was still alone when
Winston secured his tray and began to make for her table. He walked
casually towards her, his eyes searching for a place at some table beyond
her. She was perhaps three metres away from him. Another two seconds would
do it. Then a voice behind him called, 'Smith!' He pretended not to hear.
'Smith!' repeated the voice, more loudly. It was no use. He turned round. A
blond-headed, silly-faced young man named Wilsher, whom he barely knew, was
inviting him with a smile to