Winston wondered vaguely to what century the church belonged. It was always difficult to determine the age of a London building. Anything large and impressive， if it was reasonably new in appearance， was automatically claimed as having been built since the Revolution， while anything that was obviously of earlier date was ascribed to some dim period called the Middle Ages. The centuries of capitalism were held to have produced nothing of any value. One could not learn history from architecture any more than one could learn it from books. Statues， inscriptions， memorial stones， the names of streets — anything that might throw light upon the past had been systematically altered.
“I never knew it had been a church，” he said.
“There’s a lot of them left， really，” said the old man， “though they’ve been put to other uses. Now， how did that rhyme go？ Ah！ I’ve got it！”
there， now， that’s as far as I can get.
A farthing， that was a small copper coin， looked something like a cent.
“Where was St Martin’s？” said Winston.
“St Martin’s ？ That’s still standing. It’s in Victory Square， alongside the picture gallery. A building with a kind of a triangular porch and pillars in front， and a big flight of steps.”
Winston knew the place well. It was a museum used for propaganda displays of various kinds — scale models of rocket bombs and Floating Fortresses， waxwork tableaux illustrating enemy atrocities， and the like.
“St Martin’s-in-the-Fields it used to be called，” supplemented the old man， “though I don’t recollect any fields anywhere in those parts.”
Winston did not buy the picture. It would have been an even more incongruous possession than the glass paperweight， and impossible to carry home， unless it were taken out of its frame. But he lingered for some minutes more， talking to the old man， whose name， he discovered， was not Weeks—as one might have gathered from the inscription over the shop-front — but Charrington. Mr. Charrington， it seemed， was a widower aged sixty-three and had inhabited this shop for thirty years.
Throughout that time he had been intending to alter the name over the window， but had never quite got to the point of doing it. All the while that they were talking the half-remembered rhyme kept running through Winston’s head.
It was curious， but when you said it to yourself you had the illusion of actually hearing bells， the bells of a lost London that still existed somewhere or other， disguised and forgotten. From one ghostly steeple after another he seemed to hear them pealing forth. Yet so far as he could remember he had never in real life heard church bells ringing.
He got away from Mr. Charrington and went down the stairs alone， so as not to let the old man see him reconnoitring the street before stepping out of the door. He had already made up his mind that after a suitable interval — a month， say — he would take the risk of visiting the shop again. It was perhaps not more dangerous than shirking an evening at the Centre. The serious piece of folly had been to come back here in the first place， after buying the diary and without knowing whether the proprietor of the shop could be trusted. However—！
Yes， he thought again， he would come back. He would buy further scraps of beautiful rubbish. He would buy the engraving of St Clement 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
’
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. 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.
