1 But no, the knocking was repeated.
2 There were no windows in it at all.
3 And it was no longer the same cramped, awkward handwriting as before.
4 'We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness,' he had said.
5 In the vast majority of cases there was no trial, no report of the arrest.
6 There was of course no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment.
7 Whether he went on with the diary, or whether he did not go on with it, made no difference.
8 Today there were fear, hatred, and pain, but no dignity of emotion, no deep or complex sorrows.
9 Whether he wrote DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER, or whether he refrained from writing it, made no difference.
10 Winston had never made the smallest effort to verify this guess: indeed, there was no way of doing so.
11 The sun had shifted round, and the myriad windows of the Ministry of Truth, with the light no longer shining on them, looked grim as the loopholes of a fortress.
12 The thing that now suddenly struck Winston was that his mother's death, nearly thirty years ago, had been tragic and sorrowful in a way that was no longer possible.
13 There was no reproach either in their faces or in their hearts, only the knowledge that they must die in order that he might remain alive, and that this was part of the unavoidable order of things.
14 By leaving the Ministry at this time of day he had sacrificed his lunch in the canteen, and he was aware that there was no food in the kitchen except a hunk of dark-coloured bread which had got to be saved for tomorrow's breakfast.
15 What was worst of all was that by means of such organizations as the Spies they were systematically turned into ungovernable little savages, and yet this produced in them no tendency whatever to rebel against the discipline of the Party.
16 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.
17 There was no evidence, only fleeting glimpses that might mean anything or nothing: snatches of overheard conversation, faint scribbles on lavatory walls--once, even, when two strangers met, a small movement of the hand which had looked as though it might be a signal of recognition.
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