Е. Г. Тигонен

It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him. The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs[1].

“Because this stick, though originally a very handsome one has been so knocked about that I can hardly imagine a town practitioner carrying it. The thick-iron ferrule is worn down, so it is evident that he has done a great amount of walking with it.”

arising from domestic affairs changed naturally into pity and contempt as he turned over the almost endless creations of the last century;

bear so heavy and unwelcome tidings; but it is the will of God that the prince’s aflfiction abideth still

It crushed them with the weight of unending vastness and unalterable decree. It crushed them into the remotest recesses of their own minds, pressing out of them, like juices from the grape, all the false ardours and exaltations and undue self-values of the human soul, until they perceived themselves finite and small, specks and motes, moving with weak cunning and little wisdom amidst the play and inter-play of the great blind elements and forces.

to an heir born accidentally at the last possible minute when earlier intended pregnancies had produced five daughters. My frail eightysix year old father in his second childhood saw me chiefly as the means whereby a much hated cousin was to be done out of an earldom 2 he had coveted: my father delighted in my existence and I remained to him a symbol.

made it a good deal further

A church baby we like to call it.

was not much hurt, but in her fall one of the Silver Shoes came off; and before she could reach it, the Witch had snatched it away and put it on her own skinny foot.

Miss Polly Harrington entered her kitchen a little hurriedly this June