more
systematic, less fear-ridden. The best books, he perceived, are those that
tell you what you know already. He had just turned back to Chapter I when
he heard Julia's footstep on the stair and started out of his chair to meet
her. She dumped her brown tool-bag on the floor and flung herself into his
arms. It was more than a week since they had seen one another.
'I've got the book,' he said as they disentangled themselves.
'Oh, you've got it? Good,' she said without much interest, and almost
immediately knelt down beside the oil stove to make the coffee.
They did not return to the subject until they had been in bed for half
an hour. The evening was just cool enough to make it worth while to pull up
the counterpane. From below came the familiar sound of singing and the
scrape of boots on the flagstones. The brawny red-armed woman whom Winston
had seen there on his first visit was almost a fixture in the yard. There
seemed to be no hour of daylight when she was not marching to and fro
between the washtub and the line, alternately gagging herself with clothes
pegs and breaking forth into lusty song. Julia had settled down on her side
and seemed to be already on the point of falling asleep. He reached out for
the book, which was lying on the floor, and sat up against the bedhead.
'We must read
.
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