1 Winston and Julia clung together, fascinated.
2 They had only been together for about fifteen months.
3 I think it spoils it when they tie their feet together.
4 But just at this moment the crowd pressed them together and their hands accidentally met.
5 In the trucks little yellow men in shabby greenish uniforms were squatting, jammed close together.
6 Their mouths clung together; it was quite different from the hard kisses they had exchanged earlier.
7 Its enemies, if it had any enemies, had no way of coming together or even of identifying one another.
8 It could not have been ten seconds, and yet it seemed a long time that their hands were clasped together.
9 And in her practical way she scraped together a small square of dust, and with a twig from a pigeon's nest began drawing a map on the floor.
10 There were people sitting all over the stone-flagged floor, and other people, packed tightly together, were sitting on metal bunks, one above the other.
11 He had got together a big bunch and was smelling their faint sickly scent when a sound at his back froze him, the unmistakable crackle of a foot on twigs.
12 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.
13 In the last truck he could see an aged man, his face a mass of grizzled hair, standing upright with wrists crossed in front of him, as though he were used to having them bound together.
14 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.
15 With hands locked together, invisible among the press of bodies, they stared steadily in front of them, and instead of the eyes of the girl, the eyes of the aged prisoner gazed mournfully at Winston out of nests of hair.
16 So, one evening every week, Winston spent four hours of paralysing boredom, screwing together small bits of metal which were probably parts of bomb fuses, in a draughty, ill-lit workshop where the knocking of hammers mingled drearily with the music of the telescreens.
17 A low-ceilinged, crowded room, its walls grimy from the contact of innumerable bodies; battered metal tables and chairs, placed so close together that you sat with elbows touching; bent spoons, dented trays, coarse white mugs; all surfaces greasy, grime in every crack; and a sourish, composite smell of bad gin and bad coffee and metallic stew and dirty clothes.
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