just taken out of the drawer.It was a peculiarly beautiful book.Its smooth creamy paper,a little yellowed by age,was of a kind that had not been manufactured for at least for- ty years past.He could guess,however,that the book was much older than that.He had seen it lying in the window of a frowsy little junk-shop in a slummy quarter of the town (just what quarter he did not now remember)and had been stricken immediately by an overwhelming desire to possess it.Party members were supposed not to go into ordinary shops('dealing on the free market',it was called),but the rule was not strictly kept,because there were various things, such as shoelaces and razor blades,which it was impossible to get hold of in any other way.He had given a quick glance up and down the street and then had slipped inside and bought the book for two dollars fifty.At the time he was not conscious of wanting it for any particular purpose.He had carried it guiltily home in his briefcase.Even with nothing written in it,it was a compromising possession. The thing that he was about to do was to open a diary. This was not illegal(nothing was illegal,since there were no longer any laws),but if detected it was reasonably certain that it would be punished by death,or at least by twenty- five years in a forced-labour camp.Winston fitted a nib into the penholder and sucked it to get the grease off.The pen was an archaic instrument,seldom used even for signatures, and he had procured one,furtively and with some difficulty, simply because of a feeling that the beautiful creamy paper deserved to be written on with a real nib instead of being scratched with an ink-pencil.Actually he was not used to FREE EBOOKS AT PLANET EBOOK.COMFree eBooks at Planet eBook.com just taken out of the drawer. It was a peculiarly beautiful book. Its smooth creamy paper, a little yellowed by age, was of a kind that had not been manufactured for at least for￾ty years past. He could guess, however, that the book was much older than that. He had seen it lying in the window of a frowsy little junk-shop in a slummy quarter of the town (just what quarter he did not now remember) and had been stricken immediately by an overwhelming desire to possess it. Party members were supposed not to go into ordinary shops (’dealing on the free market’, it was called), but the rule was not strictly kept, because there were various things, such as shoelaces and razor blades, which it was impossible to get hold of in any other way. He had given a quick glance up and down the street and then had slipped inside and bought the book for two dollars fifty. At the time he was not conscious of wanting it for any particular purpose. He had carried it guiltily home in his briefcase. Even with nothing written in it, it was a compromising possession. The thing that he was about to do was to open a diary. This was not illegal (nothing was illegal, since there were no longer any laws), but if detected it was reasonably certain that it would be punished by death, or at least by twenty￾five years in a forced-labour camp. Winston fitted a nib into the penholder and sucked it to get the grease off. The pen was an archaic instrument, seldom used even for signatures, and he had procured one, furtively and with some difficulty, simply because of a feeling that the beautiful creamy paper deserved to be written on with a real nib instead of being scratched with an ink-pencil. Actually he was not used to