album. That was a beautiful
bit of paper, that was. Cream-laid, it used to be called. There's been no
paper like that made for -- oh, I dare say fifty years.' He peered at
Winston over the top of his spectacles. 'Is there anything special I can do
for you? Or did you just want to look round?'
'I was passing,' said Winston vaguely. 'I just looked in. I don't want
anything in particular.'
'It's just as well,' said the other, 'because I don't suppose I could
have satisfied you.' He made an apologetic gesture with his softpalmed
hand. 'You see how it is; an empty shop, you might say. Between you and me,
the antique trade's just about finished. No demand any longer, and no stock
either. Furniture, china, glass it's all been broken up by degrees. And of
course the metal stuff's mostly been melted down. I haven't seen a brass
candlestick in years.'
The tiny interior of the shop was in fact uncomfortably full, but
there was almost nothing in it of the slightest value. The floorspace was
very restricted, because all round the walls were stacked innumerable dusty
picture-frames. In the window there were trays of nuts and bolts, worn-out
chisels, penknives with broken blades, tarnished watches that did not even
pretend to be in going order, and other miscellaneous rubbish. Only on a
small table in the corner was there a litter of odds and ends -- lacquered
snuffboxes, agate brooches, and the like -- which looked as though they
might include something interesting. As Winston wandered towards the table
his eye was caught by a round, smooth thing that gleamed softly in the
lamplight, and he picked it up.
It was a heavy lump of glass, curved on one side, flat on the other,
making almost a hemisphere. There was a peculiar softness, as of rainwater,
in both the colour and the texture of the glass. A