For a moment he was violently angry. During the month that he had known her the nature of his desire for her had changed. At the beginning there had been little true sensuality in it. Their first love-making had been simply an act of the will. But after the second time it was different. The smell of her hair， the taste of her mouth， the feeling of her skin seemed to have got inside him， or into the air all round him. She had become a physical necessity， something that he not only wanted but felt that he had a right to. When she said that she could not come， he had the feeling that she was cheating him. But just at this moment the crowd pressed them together and their hands accidentally met. She gave the tips of his fingers a quick squeeze that seemed to invite not desire but affection. It struck him that when one lived with a woman this particular disappointment must be a normal， recurring event； and a deep tenderness， such as he had not felt for her before， suddenly took hold of him. He wished that they were a married couple of ten years’ standing. He wished that he were walking through the streets with her just as they were doing now but openly and without fear， talking of trivialities and buying odds and ends for the household. He wished above all that they had some place where they could be alone together without feeling the obligation to make love every time they met. It was not actually at that moment， but at some time on the following day， that the idea of renting Mr. Charrington’s room had occurred to him. When he suggested it to Julia she had agreed with unexpected readiness. Both of them knew that it was lunacy. It was as though they were intentionally stepping nearer to their graves. As he sat waiting on the edge of the bed he thought again of the cellars of the Ministry of Love. It was curious how that predestined horror moved in and out of one’s consciousness. There it lay， fixed in future times， preceding death as surely as 99 precedes 100. One could not avoid it， but one could perhaps postpone it： and yet instead， every now and again， by a conscious， wilful act， one chose to shorten the interval before it happened.
At this moment there was a quick step on the stairs. Julia burst into the room. She was carrying a tool-bag of coarse brown canvas， such as he had sometimes seen her carrying to and fro at the Ministry. He started forward to take her in his arms， but she disengaged herself rather hurriedly， partly because she was still holding the tool-bag.
“Half a second，” she said. “Just let me show you what I’ve brought. Did you bring some of that filthy Victory Coffee？ I thought you would. You can chuck it away again， because we shan’t be needing it. Look here.”
She fell on her knees， threw open the bag， and tumbled out some spanners and a screwdriver that filled the top part of it. Underneath were a number of neat paper packets. The first packet that she passed to Winston had a strange and yet vaguely familiar feeling. It was filled with some kind of heavy， sand-like stuff which yielded wherever you touched it.
“It isn’t sugar？” he said.
“Real sugar. Not saccharine， sugar. And here’s a loaf of bread proper white bread， not our bloody stuff — and a little pot of jam. And here’s a tin of milk — but look！ This is the one I’m really proud of. I had to wrap a bit of sacking round it， because—”
But she did not need to tell him why she had wrapped it up. The smell was already filling the room， a rich hot smell which seemed like an emanation from his early childhood， but which one did occasionally meet with even now， blowing down a passage-way before a door slammed， or diffusing itself mysteriously in a crowded street， sniffed for an instant and then lost again.
“It’s coffee，” he murmured， “real coffee.”
“It’s Inner Party coffee. There’s a whole kilo here， ”she said.
“How did you manage to get hold of all these things？”
“It’s all Inner Party stuff. There’s nothing those swine don’t have， nothing. But of course waiters and servants and people pinch things， and — look， I got a little packet of tea as well.”
Winston had squatted down beside her. He tore open a corner of the packet.
“It’s real tea. Not blackberry leaves.”
“There’s been a lot of tea about lately. They’ve captured India， or something，” she said vaguely. “But listen， dear. I want you to turn your back on me for three minutes. Go and sit on the other side of the bed. Don’t go too near the window. And don’t turn round till I tell you.”
Winston gazed abstractedly through the muslin curtain. Down in the yard the red-armed woman was still marching to and fro between the washtub and the line. She took two more pegs out of her mouth and sang with deep feeling：
She knew the whole drivelling song by heart， it seemed. Her voice floated upward with the sweet summer air， very tuneful， charged with a sort of happy melancholy. One had the feeling that she would have been perfectly content， if the June evening had been endless and the supply of clothes inexhaustible， to remain there for a thousand years， pegging out diapers and singing rubbish. It struck him as a curious fact that he had never heard a member of the Party singing alone and spontaneously. It would even have seemed slightly unorthodox， a dangerous eccentricity， like talking to oneself. Perhaps it was only when people were somewhere near the starvation level that they had anything to sing about.
“You can turn round now，” said Julia.
He turned round， and for a second almost failed to recognize her. What he had actually expected was to see her naked. But she was not naked. The transformation that had happened was much more surprising than that. She had painted her face.