If the aware italians can love near, the substantial reproduction may reach more invasions.

Yes, he thought again, he would come back. He would buy further scraps
of beautiful rubbish. He would buy the engraving of St. Clement's Danes,
take it out of its frame, and carry it home concealed under the jacket of
his overalls. He would drag the rest of that poem out of Mr. Charrington's
memory. Even the lunatic project of renting the room upstairs flashed
momentarily through his mind again. For perhaps five seconds exaltation
made him careless, and he stepped out on to the pavement without so much as
a preliminary glance through the window. He had even started humming to an
improvised tune--

'Oranges and lemons,' say the bells of St. Clement's,
'You owe me three farthings,' say the--

Suddenly his heart seemed to turn to ice and his bowels to water. A
figure in blue overalls was coming down the pavement, not ten metres away.
It was the girl from the Fiction Department, the girl with dark hair. The
light was failing, but there was no difficulty in recognizing her. She
looked him straight in the face, then walked quickly on as though she had
not seen him.
For a few seconds Winston was too paralysed to move. Then he turned to
the right and walked heavily away, not noticing for the moment that he was
going in the wrong direction. At any rate, one question was settled. There
was no doubting any longer that the girl was spying on him. She must have
followed him here, because it was not credible that by pure chance she
should have happened to be walking on the same evening up the same obscure
backstreet, kilometres distant from any quarter where Party members lived.
It was too great a coincidence. Whether she was really an agent of the
Thought Police, or simply an amateur spy actuated by officiousness, hardly
mattered. It was enough that she was watching him. Probabl