"The Grange is large enough to give a stranger shelter." The man laughed.

"Of course he does; it's my place he's living in." Barrington turned again to Winston, and his face seemed to have grown a trifle stern.
"Who is this man ?" he said.
Winston looked steadily in front of him, vacantly noticing the rows of faces turned towards him under the big lamps.

"If he had waited a few minutes longer, you would have known," he said.

"He is Lance Courthorne." This time the murmurs implied incredulity, but the man who stood swaying a little with his hand on the chair, and a smile in his half-closed eyes, made an ironical inclination.
"It's evident you don't believe it or wish to.

Still, it's true," he said.
One of the men nearest him rose and quietly thrust him into the chair.
"Sit down in the meanwhile," he said dryly.