> But she did not need to tell him why she had wrapped it up. The smell was already filling the room, a rich hot smell which seemed like an emanation from his early childhood, but which one did occasionally meet with even now, blowing down a passage-way before a door slammed, or diffusing itself mysteriously in a crowded street, sniffed for an instant and then lost again. > >'It's coffee,' he murmured, 'real coffee.' > >'It's Inner Party coffee. There's a whole kilo here,' she said. > >'How did you manage to get hold of all these things?' > >'It's all Inner Party stuff. There's nothing those swine don't have, nothing. But of course waiters and servants and people pinch things, and -- look, I got a little packet of tea as well.' > >Winston had squatted down beside her. He tore open a corner of the packet. > >'It's real tea. Not blackberry leaves.' - George Orwell, 1984 (Part 2, Chapter 4)