[Sharpe Fan]

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. Probably she had seen
him go into the pub as well.
It was an effort to walk. The lump of glass in his pocket banged
against his thigh at each step, and he was half minded to take it out and
throw it away. The worst thing was the pain in his belly. For a couple of
minutes he had the feeling that he would die if he did not reach a lavatory
soon. But there would be no public lavatories in a quarter like this. Then
the spasm passed, leaving a dull ache behind.
The street was a blind alley. Winston halted, stood for several
seconds wondering vaguely what to do, then turned round and began to
retrace his steps. As he turned it occurred to him that the girl had only
passed him three minutes ago and that by running he could probably catch up
with her. He could keep on her track till they were in some quiet place,
and then smash her skull in with a cobblestone. The piece of glass in his
pocket would be heavy enough for the job. But he abandoned the idea
immediately, because even the thought of making any physical effort was
unbearable. He could not run, he could not strike a blow. Besides, she was
young and lusty and would defend herself. He thought also of hurrying to
the Communit