But at some time or another he had tasted
chocolate like the piece she had given him. The first whiff of its scent
had stirred up some memory which he could not pin down, but which was
powerful and troubling.
'Where did you get this stuff?' he said.
'Black market,' she said indifferently. 'Actually I am that sort of
girl, to look at. I'm good at games. I was a troop-leader in the Spies. I
do voluntary work three evenings a week for the Junior Anti-Sex League.
Hours and hours I've spent pasting their bloody rot all over London. I
always carry one end of a banner in the processions. I always Iook cheerful
and I never shirk anything. Always yell with the crowd, that's what I say.
It's the only way to be safe.'
The first fragment of chocolate had melted on Winston's tongue. The
taste was delightful. But there was still that memory moving round the
edges of his consciousness, something strongly felt but not reducible to
definite shape, like an object seen out of the corner of one's eye. He
pushed it away from him, aware only that it was the memory of some action
which he would have liked to undo but could not.
'You are