--
fixedly in front of them.
     A long line of trucks, with wooden-faced guards armed with sub-machine
guns  standing upright  in each corner, was passing slowly down the street.
In the trucks little yellow men in shabby greenish uniforms were squatting,
jammed  close together. Their sad, Mongolian faces gazed out over the sides
of the trucks utterly incurious. Occasionally when a truck jolted there was
a  clank-clank  of metal: all  the prisoners were wearing leg-irons. Truck-
load after truck-load of the sad faces passed. Winston knew they were there
but he saw them only intermittently. The girl's shoulder, and her arm right
down  to  the elbow,  were pressed  against his. Her  cheek was almost near
enough  for him to feel its warmth. She had immediately taken charge of the
situation,  just as she  had done in the canteen. She began speaking in the
same expressionless voice as before, with lips barely moving, a mere murmur
easily drowned by the din of voices and the rumbling of the trucks.
     'Can you hear me?'
     'Yes.'
     'Can you get Sunday afternoon off?'
     'Yes.'
     'Then listen carefully. You'll have to remember this. Go to Paddington
Station--'
     With  a  sort of military  precision that astonished him, she outlined
the  route  that he was  to follow. A  half-hour railway journey; turn left
outside the station; two kilometres along the road: a gate with the top bar
missing; a path across a field; a grass-grown lane; a track between bushes;
a  dead  tree with moss  on it. It  was as though she  had a map inside her
head. 'Can you remember all that?' she murmured finally.
     'Yes.'
     'You