They were perhaps four metres apart when the girl stumbled and fell almost flat on her face. A sharp cry of pain was wrung out of her. She must have fallen right on the injured arm. Winston stopped short. The girl had risen to her knees. Her face had turned a milky yellow colour against which her mouth stood out redder than ever. Her eyes were fixed on his， with an appealing expression that looked more like fear than pain. A curious emotion stirred in Winston’s heart. In front of him was an enemy who was trying to kill him： in front of him， also， was a human creature， in pain and perhaps with a broken bone. Already he had instinctively started forward to help her. In the moment when he had seen her fall on the bandaged arm， it had been as though he felt the pain in his own body.
“You’re hurt？” he said.
“It’s nothing. My arm. It’ll be all right in a second.”She spoke as though her heart were fluttering. She had certainly turned very pale.
“You haven’t broken anything？”
“No， I’m all right. It hurt for a moment， that’s all.”She held out her free hand to him， and he helped her up. She had regained some of her colour， and appeared very much better.
“It’s nothing，” she repeated shortly. “I only gave my wrist a bit of a bang. Thanks， comrade！“
And with that she walked on in the direction in which she had been going， as briskly as though it had really been nothing. The whole incident could not have taken as much as half a minute. Not to let one’s feelings appear in one’s face was a habit that had acquired the status of an instinct， and in any case they had been standing straight in front of a telescreen when the thing happened. Nevertheless it had been very difficult not to betray a momentary surprise， for in the two or three seconds while he was helping her up the girl had slipped something into his hand. There was no question that she had done it intentionally. It was something small and flat. As he passed through the lavatory door he transferred it to his pocket and felt it with the tips of his fingers. It was a scrap of paper folded into a square.
While he stood at the urinal he managed， with a little more fingering， to get it unfolded. Obviously there must be a message of some kind written on it. For a moment he was tempted to take it into one of the water-closets and read it at once. But that would be shocking folly， as he well knew. There was no place where you could be more certain that the telescreens were watched continuously.
He went back to his cubicle， sat down， threw the fragment of paper casually among the other papers on the desk， put on his spectacles and hitched the speakwrite towards him. “five minutes，” he told himself， “five minutes at the very least！” His heart bumped in his breast with frightening loudness. Fortunately the piece of work he was engaged on was mere routine， the rectification of a long list of figures， not needing close attention.
Whatever was written on the paper， it must have some kind of political meaning. So far as he could see there were two possibilities. One， much the more likely， was that the girl was an agent of the Thought Police， just as he had feared. He did not know why the Thought Police should choose to deliver their messages in such a fashion， but perhaps they had their reasons. The thing that was written on the paper might be a threat， a summons， an order to commit suicide， a trap of some description. But there was another， wilder possibility that kept raising its head， though he tried vainly to suppress it. This was， that the message did not come from the Thought Police at all， but from some kind of underground organization. Perhaps the Brotherhood existed after all！ Perhaps the girl was part of it！ No doubt the idea was absurd， but it had sprung into his mind in the very instant of feeling the scrap of paper in his hand. It was not till a couple of minutes later that the other， more probable explanation had occurred to him. And even now， though his intellect told him that the message probably meant death — still， that was not what he believed， and the unreasonable hope persisted， and his heart banged， and it was with difficulty that he kept his voice from trembling as he murmured his figures into the speakwrite.
He rolled up the completed bundle of work and slid it into the pneumatic tube. Eight minutes had gone by. He re-adjusted his spectacles on his nose， sighed， and drew the next batch of work towards him， with the scrap of paper on top of it. He flattened it out. On it was written， in a large unformed handwriting：
For several seconds he was too stunned even to throw the incriminating thing into the memory hole. When he did so， although he knew very well the danger of showing too much interest， he could not resist reading it once again， just to make sure that the words were really there.For the rest of the morning it was very difficult to work. What was even worse than having to focus his mind on a series of niggling jobs was the need to conceal his agitation from the telescreen. He felt as though a fire were burning in his belly. Lunch in the hot， crowded， noise-filled canteen was torment. He had hoped to be alone for a little while during the lunch hour， but as bad luck would have it the imbecile Parsons flopped down beside him， the tang of his sweat almost defeating the tinny smell of stew， and kept up a stream of talk about the preparations for Hate Week. He was particularly enthusiastic about a papier-Maché model of Big Brother’s head， two metres wide， which was being made for the occasion by his daughter’s troop of Spies. The irritating thing was that in the racket of voices Winston could hardly hear what Parsons was saying， and was constantly having to ask for some fatuous remark to be repeated. Just once he caught a glimpse of the girl， at a table with two other girls at the far end of the room. She appeared not to have seen him， and he did not look in that direction again.
