1 Mr. Charrington, thought Winston, was another extinct animal.
2 Winston explained about the room over Mr. Charrington's shop.
3 He would drag the rest of that poem out of Mr. Charrington's memory.
4 Winston looked round the shabby little room above Mr. Charrington's shop.
5 As he had foreseen, Mr. Charrington had made no difficulty about letting the room.
6 Perhaps it could be dug out of Mr. Charrington's memory, if he were suitably prompted.
7 He usually stopped to talk with Mr. Charrington for a few minutes on his way upstairs.
8 In the fender was a battered tin oilstove, a saucepan, and two cups, provided by Mr. Charrington.
9 With a sort of voluptuous creaking in his joints he climbed the stair above Mr. Charrington's shop.
10 Mr. Charrington, it seemed, was a widower aged sixty-three and had inhabited this shop for thirty years.
11 It was not actually at that moment, but at some time on the following day, that the idea of renting Mr. Charrington's room had occurred to him.
12 He got away from Mr. Charrington and went down the stairs alone, so as not to let the old man see him reconnoitring the street before stepping out of the door.
13 In the room over Mr. Charrington's shop, when they could get there, Julia and Winston lay side by side on a stripped bed under the open window, naked for the sake of coolness.
14 Like the glass paperweight or Mr. Charrington's half-remembered rhymes, it belonged to the vanished, romantic past, the olden time as he liked to call it in his secret thoughts.
15 But he lingered for some minutes more, talking to the old man, whose name, he discovered, was not Weeks--as one might have gathered from the inscription over the shop-front--but Charrington.
16 Slowly, in mild afternoon sunshine, he walked up a dingy street in the direction of Mr. Charrington's shop, keeping one eye open for the patrols, but irrationally convinced that this afternoon there was no danger of anyone interfering with him.
17 Instead of anything directly connected with O'Brien or the Brotherhood, there came into his mind a sort of composite picture of the dark bedroom where his mother had spent her last days, and the little room over Mr. Charrington's shop, and the glass paperweight, and the steel engraving in its rosewood frame.
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