1 You see how it is; an empty shop, you might say.
2 Winston explained about the room over Mr. Charrington's shop.
3 Winston looked round the shabby little room above Mr. Charrington's shop.
4 He was in a narrow street, with a few dark little shops, interspersed among dwelling-houses.
5 And in a small stationer's shop not far away he had bought his penholder and his bottle of ink.
6 At the same time he noticed that although it was nearly twenty-one hours the shop was still open.
7 At any given moment there was some necessary article which the Party shops were unable to supply.
8 With a sort of voluptuous creaking in his joints he climbed the stair above Mr. Charrington's shop.
9 Mr. Charrington, it seemed, was a widower aged sixty-three and had inhabited this shop for thirty years.
10 The tiny interior of the shop was in fact uncomfortably full, but there was almost nothing in it of the slightest value.
11 She must have slipped into some shop in the proletarian quarters and bought herself a complete set of make-up materials.
12 He had already made up his mind that after a suitable interval--a month, say--he would take the risk of visiting the shop again.
13 The serious piece of folly had been to come back here in the first place, after buying the diary and without knowing whether the proprietor of the shop could be trusted.
14 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.
15 He led a ghostlike existence between the tiny, dark shop, and an even tinier back kitchen where he prepared his meals and which contained, among other things, an unbelievably ancient gramophone with an enormous horn.
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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