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The Spike
The Spike
  • ÀúÀÚGeorge Orwell
  • ÃâÆÇ»çµµµðµå
  • ÃâÆÇÀÏ2014-07-01
  • µî·ÏÀÏ2015-02-09
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It was late-afternoon. Forty-nine of us, forty-eight men and one woman, lay on the green waiting for the spike to open. We were too tired to talk much. We just sprawled about exhaustedly, with home-made cigarettes sticking out of our scrubby faces. Overhead the chestnut branches were covered with blossom, and beyond that great woolly clouds floated almost motionless in a clear sky. Littered on the grass, we seemed dingy, urban riff-raff. We defiled the scene, like sardine-tins and paper bags on the seashore.

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