George Orwell

with a wise and benevolent appearance in spite of his tushes 3

clipped his speakwritten corrections

Mr Jones of the Manor Farm, had locked the henhouses for the night, but was too drunk to remember to shut the pop-holes. With the ring of light from his lantern dancing from side to side he lurched across the yard, kicked off his boots at the back door, drew himself a last glass of beer from the barrel in the scullery, and made his way up to bed, where Mrs Jones was already snoring.

Tell me, what did you think of me before that day I gave you the note?” He did not feel any temptation to tell lies to her. “I hated the sight of you,” he said. “I wanted to rape you and then murder you afterwards. Two weeks ago I thought seriously of smashing your head in with a cobblestone.

window: a smallish, frail figure, the meagerness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls which were the uniform of the Party. His hair was very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended. Outside, even through the shut window

they have simply been trapped by a routine which makes thought impossible

said. OBrien had not long ago known any idea that he had ever had, or could have.