’s only because c in mines and girls are  typeers t anyone ever ime to pick a flo to pick flo t’s not t.  I get inside me—not often, I admit, but no’s a good feeling to ’s more, so does everybody else, or nearly everybody. It’s just round time, and ’s top firing t macop cever you’re c your breat a bit of peace seep into your bones. No use. e don’t do it. Just keep on he same bloody fooleries.

    And t raigo it. treamlined bullets streaming from t t t icularly. I’m too old to fig t  everybody. Besides, even if t kind of danger exists, it doesn’t really enter into one’s ts beforeimes already, I’m not friger- isn’t likely to affect me personally. Because  to be a political suspect. No one  it frigioner plugs you from be matter it frigellectually a good deal dumber t o telling you about, t peace, if you like. But s. And it’s gone for ever if trunc hold of us.

    I picked up my bunc t  it  of my mind all time, after ty years during ten it. And just at t the road.

    It broug. I suddenly realized o ory at t ironmonger’s s  suddenly struck me  man in a bo look rig all. Fat men mustn’t pick primroses, at any rate in public. I just ime to c. It  ty.  me—you kno struck me t even no some I’d been doing. Better let ‘em t  out of  try road? Obvious! As t past I pretended to be doing up a fly-button.

    I cranked up tarter doesn’t  in. Curiously enoug ers full of to me.

    I’d go back to Lower Binfield!

    ? I t as I jammed o top gear.  I?  o stop me? And  of it be