Nothing to do, and the hotel too hopelessly old-fashioned–no television laid on in the bedrooms, no scent organ, only the most putrid synthetic music, and not more than twenty-five Escalator-Squash Courts for over two hundred guests. The trouble was that she knew the North Pole, had been there with George Edzel only last summer, and what was more, found it pretty grim. So odd, indeed, that in the course of the succeeding weeks she had wondered more than once whether she shouldn’t change her mind about the New Mexico holiday, and go instead to the North Pole with Benito Hoover. ODD, ODD, odd, was Lenina’s verdict on Bernard Marx.
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