Chuck Steak
December 25th 07, 09:54 PM
easy to say.
At this moment he was dragged out of his reverie with a violent jerk.
The girl at the next table had turned partly round and was looking at him.
It was the girl with dark hair. She was looking at him in a sidelong way,
but with curious intensity. The instant she caught his eye she looked away
again.
The sweat started out on Winston's backbone. A horrible pang of terror
went through him. It was gone almost at once, but it left a sort of nagging
uneasiness behind. Why was she watching him? Why did she keep following him
about? Unfortunately he could not remember whether she had already been at
the table when he arrived, or had come there afterwards. But yesterday, at
any rate, during the Two Minutes Hate, she had sat immediately behind him
when there was no apparent need to do so. Quite likely her real object had
been to listen to him and make sure whether he was shouting loudly enough.
His earlier thought returned to him: probably she was not actually a
member of the Thought Police, but then it was precisely the amateur spy who
was the greatest danger of all. He did not know how long she had been
looking at him, but perhaps for as much as five minutes, and it was
possible that his features had not been perfectly under control. It was
terribly dangerous to let your thoughts wander when you were in any public
place or within range of a telescreen. The smallest thing could give you
away. A nervous tic, an unconscious look of anxiety, a habit of muttering
to yourself -- anything that carried with it the suggestion of abnormality,
of having something to hide. In any case, to wear a
At this moment he was dragged out of his reverie with a violent jerk.
The girl at the next table had turned partly round and was looking at him.
It was the girl with dark hair. She was looking at him in a sidelong way,
but with curious intensity. The instant she caught his eye she looked away
again.
The sweat started out on Winston's backbone. A horrible pang of terror
went through him. It was gone almost at once, but it left a sort of nagging
uneasiness behind. Why was she watching him? Why did she keep following him
about? Unfortunately he could not remember whether she had already been at
the table when he arrived, or had come there afterwards. But yesterday, at
any rate, during the Two Minutes Hate, she had sat immediately behind him
when there was no apparent need to do so. Quite likely her real object had
been to listen to him and make sure whether he was shouting loudly enough.
His earlier thought returned to him: probably she was not actually a
member of the Thought Police, but then it was precisely the amateur spy who
was the greatest danger of all. He did not know how long she had been
looking at him, but perhaps for as much as five minutes, and it was
possible that his features had not been perfectly under control. It was
terribly dangerous to let your thoughts wander when you were in any public
place or within range of a telescreen. The smallest thing could give you
away. A nervous tic, an unconscious look of anxiety, a habit of muttering
to yourself -- anything that carried with it the suggestion of abnormality,
of having something to hide. In any case, to wear a