1 But the world itself is only a speck of dust.
2 We shall take part in it as handfuls of dust and splinters of bone.
3 One had the impression that there was dust in the creases of her face.
4 Even the speck of whitish dust on the cover of his diary they had carefully replaced.
5 Half the tobacco promptly fell out on to his tongue, a bitter dust which was difficult to spit out again.
6 In the better light of the living-room he noticed with interest that there actually was dust in the creases of her face.
7 A black plume of smoke hung in the sky, and below it a cloud of plaster dust in which a crowd was already forming around the ruins.
8 For some reason Winston suddenly found himself thinking of Mrs. Parsons, with her wispy hair and the dust in the creases of her face.
9 And in her practical way she scraped together a small square of dust, and with a twig from a pigeon's nest began drawing a map on the floor.
10 On the opposite side of the alley there was a dingy little pub whose windows appeared to be frosted over but in reality were merely coated with dust.
11 Already on the walk from the station the May sunshine had made him feel dirty and etiolated, a creature of indoors, with the sooty dust of London in the pores of his skin.
12 With the tip of his finger he picked up an identifiable grain of whitish dust and deposited it on the corner of the cover, where it was bound to be shaken off if the book was moved.
13 She did everything that was needed--cooked, washed, mended, made the bed, swept the floor, dusted the mantelpiece--always very slowly and with a curious lack of superfluous motion, like an artist's lay-figure moving of its own accord.
14 Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.
15 Down in the street little eddies of wind were whirling dust and torn paper into spirals, and though the sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were plastered everywhere.
16 With the deep, unconscious sigh which not even the nearness of the telescreen could prevent him from uttering when his day's work started, Winston pulled the speakwrite towards him, blew the dust from its mouthpiece, and put on his spectacles.
17 They remembered a million useless things, a quarrel with a workmate, a hunt for a lost bicycle pump, the expression on a long-dead sister's face, the swirls of dust on a windy morning seventy years ago: but all the relevant facts were outside the range of their vision.
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