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A solitary figure was coming toward him from the other end of the long, brightly lit corridor. It was the girl with dark hair.
She must have fallen right on the injured arm. Winston stopped short. The girl had risen to her knees. Her face a milky-yellow color against which her mouth stood out redder than ever.
It's nothing, my arm. It'll be alright in a second.
You're hurt ?
She held out her free hand to him, and he helped her up.
It's nothing. I only gave my wrist a bit of a bang. Thanks, comrade!
While he was helping her up the girl has slipped something into his hand.
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 toward him.
He flattened it out. On it was written, in a large unformed handwriting.
I Love You.
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