1 And so it was with every class of recorded fact, great or small.
2 They were like the ant, which can see small objects but not large ones.
3 A small, sandy-haired woman who worked in the next cubicle to Winston was between them.
4 And in a small stationer's shop not far away he had bought his penholder and his bottle of ink.
5 Only small sums were actually paid out, the winners of the big prizes being non-existent persons.
6 He went back to the living-room and sat down at a small table that stood to the left of the telescreen.
7 Actually, so far as he could judge, the majority of people in Airstrip One were small, dark, and ill-favoured.
8 On the far side of the room there was a small bar, a mere hole in the wall, where gin could be bought at ten cents the large nip.
9 Winston found and handed over two creased and filthy notes, which Parsons entered in a small notebook, in the neat handwriting of the illiterate.
10 Then he unrolled and clipped together four small cylinders of paper which had already flopped out of the pneumatic tube on the right-hand side of his desk.
11 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.
12 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.
13 A handsome, tough-looking boy of nine had popped up from behind the table and was menacing him with a toy automatic pistol, while his small sister, about two years younger, made the same gesture with a fragment of wood.
14 To the right of the speakwrite, a small pneumatic tube for written messages, to the left, a larger one for newspapers; and in the side wall, within easy reach of Winston's arm, a large oblong slit protected by a wire grating.
15 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.
16 It was a lean Jewish face, with a great fuzzy aureole of white hair and a small goatee beard--a clever face, and yet somehow inherently despicable, with a kind of senile silliness in the long thin nose, near the end of which a pair of spectacles was perched.
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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