1984

           Thatwasabeautifulbitofpaper,thatwas. Cream-laid,itusedtobecalled. There’sbeennopaperlikethatmadefor—oh,Idaresayfiftyyears.’ HepeeredatWinstonoverthetopofhisspectacles. ‘IsthereanythingspecialIcandoforyou? Ordidyoujustwanttolookround?’ 

           ‘Iwaspassing,’saidWinstonvaguely.‘Ijustlookedin. Idon’twantanythinginparticular.’ 

           ‘It’sjustaswell,’saidtheother,‘becauseIdon’tsupposeIcouldhavesatisfiedyou.’ Hemadeanapologeticgesturewithhissoftpalmedhand. ‘Youseehowitis;anemptyshop,youmightsay. Betweenyouandme,theantiquetrade’sjustaboutfinished. Nodemandanylonger,andnostockeither. Furniture,china,glassit’sallbeenbrokenupbydegrees. Andofcoursethemetalstuff’smostlybeenmelteddown. Ihaven’tseenabrasscandlestickinyears.’ 

           Thetinyinterioroftheshopwasinfactuncomfortablyfull,buttherewasalmostnothinginitoftheslightestvalue. Thefloorspacewasveryrestricted,becauseallroundthewallswerestackedinnumerabledustypicture-frames. Inthewindowthereweretraysofnutsandbolts,worn-outchisels,penkniveswithbrokenblades,tarnishedwatchesthatdidnotevenpretendtobeingoingorder,andothermiscellaneousrubbish. Onlyonasmalltableinthecornerwastherealitterofoddsandends—lacqueredsnuffboxes,agatebrooches,andthelike—whichlookedasthoughtheymightincludesomethinginteresting. AsWinstonwanderedtowardsthetablehiseyewascaughtbyaround,smooththingthatgleamedsoftlyinthelamplight,andhepickeditup. 

           Itwasaheavylumpofglass,curvedononeside,flatontheother,makingalmostahemisphere.