[John McCoy]

as though the
bird were deliberately showing off its virtuosity. Sometimes it stopped for
a few seconds, spread out and resettled its wings, then swelled its
speckled breast and again burst into song. Winston watched it with a sort
of vague reverence. For whom, for what, was that bird singing? No mate, no
rival was watching it. What made it sit at the edge of the lonely wood and
pour its music into nothingness? He wondered whether after all there was a
microphone hidden somewhere near. He and Julia had spoken only in low
whispers, and it would not pick up what they had said, but it would pick up
the thrush. Perhaps at the other end of the instrument some small, beetle-
like man was listening intently -- listening to that. But by degrees the
flood of music drove all speculations out of his mind. It was as though it
were a kind of liquid stuff that poured all over him and got mixed up with
the sunlight that filtered through the leaves. He stopped thinking and
merely felt. The girl's waist in the bend of his arm was soft and warm. He
pulled her round so that they were breast to breast; her body seemed to
melt into his. Wherever his hands moved it was all as yielding as water.
Their mouths clung together; it was quite different from the hard kisses
they had exchanged earlier. When they moved their faces apart again both of
them sighed deeply. The bird took fright and fled with a clatter of wings.
Winston put his lips against her ear. 'Now,' he whispered.
'Not here,' she whispered back. 'Com