Page 120 - 1984

he stepped through the doorway. If questioned, he could
plausibly say that he was trying to buy razor blades.
The proprietor had just lighted a hanging oil lamp which
gave off an unclean but friendly smell. He was a man of per-
haps sixty, frail and bowed, with a long, benevolent nose,
and mild eyes distorted by thick spectacles. His hair was al-
most white, but his eyebrows were bushy and still black. His
spectacles, his gentle, fussy movements, and the fact that he
was wearing an aged jacket of black velvet, gave him a vague
air of intellectuality, as though he had been some kind of
literary man, or perhaps a musician. His voice was soft, as
though faded, and his accent less debased than that of the
majority of proles.
‘I recognized you on the pavement,’ he said immediately.
‘You’re the gentleman that bought the young lady’s keepsake
album. That was a beautiful bit of paper, that was. Cream-
laid, it used to be called. There’s been no paper like that
made for—oh, I dare say fifty years.’ He peered at Winston
over the top of his spectacles. ‘Is there anything special I
can do for you? Or did you just want to look round?’
‘I was passing,’ said Winston vaguely. ‘I just looked in. I
don’t want anything in particular.’
‘It’s just as well,’ said the other, ‘because I don’t suppose
I could have satisfied you.’ He made an apologetic gesture
with his softpalmed hand. ‘You see how it is; an empty shop,
you might say. Between you and me, the antique trade’s just
about finished. No demand any longer, and no stock either.
Furniture, china, glass it’s all been broken up by degrees.
And of course the metal stuff’s mostly been melted down. I

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