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From: | Malcolm Moss |
Subject: | [Cwriter-fr] backup chalk |
Date: | Thu, 14 Sep 2006 04:54:00 -0600 |
Hecould see the white all round the irises of
Julias eyes.
Theguard was laughing at his
contortions.
The confession was a formality,though the torture
was real.
Do you remember, he said, the thrush that sang to
us, that first day,at the edge of the wood?
With that first blow on the elbow the nightmare had
started. She paused, pattedher breast, and belched.
But after reading it he knewbetter than before that
he was not mad. He thought oftener of OBrien, with a flickeringhope.
One ofthe men had smashed his fist into Julias
solar plexus, doubling her uplike a pocket ruler.
They stood out in his minddisconnectedly, like
pictures with blackness all round them.
Theguard was laughing at his
contortions.
He had still, he reflected, not learned the
ultimate secret. His large pouchy cheeks were quiveringuncontrollably.
I tried to do my best for the Party, didnt I? This
time Winston was startled into self-forgetfulness. Her breast roseand fell slowly
and regularly. His eyes focused themselves slowly on Winston.
The picture had fallento the floor uncovering the
telescreen behind it.
You were the dead, theirs was the
future.
The drivelling song seemed to have kept its
popularity. Nor, in thecircumstances, did it strike him as very important or
interesting. She leant forward and vomited copiously on the floor.
Whenit grew worse he thought only of the pain
itself, and of his desire forfood. Whenit grew worse he thought only of the pain
itself, and of his desire forfood. He had slumped to his knees, almost paralysed,
clasping thestricken elbow with his other hand.
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