1 These rich men were called capitalists.
2 The three men sat in their corner almost motionless, never speaking.
3 It struck him as curious that you could create dead men but not living ones.
4 Among the last survivors were three men named Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford.
5 They were fat, ugly men with wicked faces, like the one in the picture on the opposite page.
6 There was a whole tribe of men who made a living simply by selling systems, forecasts, and lucky amulets.
7 The point was that at both trials all three men had confessed that on that date they had been on Eurasian soil.
8 He was a few paces away from them when suddenly the group broke up and two of the men were in violent altercation.
9 The aim of the Party was not merely to prevent men and women from forming loyalties which it might not be able to control.
10 The little beetle-like men who scuttle so nimbly through the labyrinthine corridors of Ministries they, too, would never be vaporized.
11 All three men sprang to their feet to join in the struggle round the lifts, and the remaining tobacco fell out of Winston's cigarette.
12 They were men far older than himself, relics of the ancient world, almost the last great figures left over from the heroic days of the Party.
13 But in among all this terrible poverty there were just a few great big beautiful houses that were lived in by rich men who had as many as thirty servants to look after them.
14 Already, at the time when he made his discovery, Oceania was no longer at war with Eurasia, and it must have been to the agents of Eastasia that the three dead men had betrayed their country.
15 In an angle formed by a projecting house-front three men were standing very close together, the middle one of them holding a folded-up newspaper which the other two were studying over his shoulder.
16 It was curious how that beetle-like type proliferated in the Ministries: little dumpy men, growing stout very early in life, with short legs, swift scuttling movements, and fat inscrutable faces with very small eyes.
17 And all the while, lest one should be in any doubt as to the reality which Goldstein's specious claptrap covered, behind his head on the telescreen there marched the endless columns of the Eurasian army--row after row of solid-looking men with expressionless Asiatic faces, who swam up to the surface of the screen and vanished, to be replaced by others exactly similar.
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