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Posted by austin duncan on December 24, 2007, 4:02 pm
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a different
kind of cry. A kick from a guard's boot had broken the fingers of one of
his hands. They dragged him to his feet.
'Room 101,' said the officer.
The man was led out, walking unsteadily, with head sunken, nursing his
crushed hand, all the fight had gone out of him.
A long time passed. If it had been midnight when the skull-faced man
was taken away, it was morning: if morning, it was afternoon. Winston was
alone, and had been alone for hours. The pain of sitting on the narrow
bench was such that often he got up and walked about, unreproved by the
telescreen. The piece of bread still lay where the chinless man had dropped
it. At the beginning it needed a hard effort not to look at it, but
presently hunger gave way to thirst. His mouth was sticky and evil-tasting.
The humming sound and the unvarying white light induced a sort of
faintness, an empty feeling inside his head. He would get up because the
ache in his bones was no longer bearable, and then would sit down again
almost at once because he was too dizzy to make sure of staying on his
feet. Whenever his physical sensations were a little under control the
terror returned. Sometimes with a fading hope he thought of O'Brien and the
razor blade. It was thinkable that the razor blade might arrive concealed
in his food, if he were ever fed. More dimly he thought of Julia. Somewhere
or other she was suffering perhaps far worse than he. She might be
screaming with pain at this moment. He thought: 'If I could save Julia by
doubling my own pain, would I do it? Ye
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