1 It was not the man's brain that was speaking, it was his larynx.
2 'Just the man I was looking for,' said a voice at Winston's back.
3 He was a man of about thirty, with a muscular throat and a large, mobile mouth.
4 Someone whom the old man loved--a little granddaughter, perhaps--had been killed.
5 O'Brien was a large, burly man with a thick neck and a coarse, humorous, brutal face.
6 At the table on his left the man with the strident voice was still talking remorselessly away.
7 Now he had recognized himself as a dead man it became important to stay alive as long as possible.
8 And yet, though you could not actually hear what the man was saying, you could not be in any doubt about its general nature.
9 Winston knew the man by sight, though he knew no more about him than that he held some important post in the Fiction Department.
10 Winston and his mother and father found themselves a place on the floor, and near them an old man and an old woman were sitting side by side on a bunk.
11 The old man had on a decent dark suit and a black cloth cap pushed back from very white hair: his face was scarlet and his eyes were blue and full of tears.
12 It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features.
13 Parsons, Winston's fellow-tenant at Victory Mansions, was in fact threading his way across the room--a tubby, middle-sized man with fair hair and a froglike face.
14 The other person was a man named O'Brien, a member of the Inner Party and holder of some post so important and remote that Winston had only a dim idea of its nature.
15 On the far side of the room, sitting at a table alone, a small, curiously beetle-like man was drinking a cup of coffee, his little eyes darting suspicious glances from side to side.
16 He was a fattish but active man of paralysing stupidity, a mass of imbecile enthusiasms--one of those completely unquestioning, devoted drudges on whom, more even than on the Thought Police, the stability of the Party depended.
17 In the corresponding cubicle on the other side a small, precise-looking, dark-chinned man named Tillotson was working steadily away, with a folded newspaper on his knee and his mouth very close to the mouthpiece of the speakwrite.
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