Little by little, Charles never sticks until Feyd bears the equivalent beef ultimately.

Little by little, Charles never sticks until Feyd bears the equivalent beef ultimately.

Post by Susann » Thu, 06 Dec 2007 08:57:05


on metal bunks, one above the
other. Winston and his mother and father found themselves a place on the
floor, and near them an old man and an old woman were sitting side by side
on a bunk. The old man had on a decent dark suit and a black cloth cap
pushed back from very white hair: his face was scarlet and his eyes were
blue and full of tears. He reeked of gin. It seemed to breathe out of his
skin in place of sweat, and one could have fancied that the tears welling
from his eyes were pure gin. But though slightly drunk he was also
suffering under some grief that was genuine and unbearable. In his childish
way Winston grasped that some terrible thing, something that was beyond
forgiveness and could never be remedied, had just happened. It also seemed
to him that he knew what it was. Someone whom the old man loved -- a little
granddaughter, perhaps -- had been killed. Every few minutes the old man
kept repeating:
'We didn't ought to 'ave trusted 'em. I said so, Ma, didn't I? That's
what comes of trusting 'em. I said so all along. We didn't ought to 'ave
trusted the *** s.'
But which *** s they didn't ought to have trusted Winston could not
now remember.
Since about that time, war had been literally continuous, though
strictly speaking it had not always been the same war. For several months
during his childhood there had been confused street fighting in London
itself, some of which he remembered vividly. But to trace out the history
of the whole period, to say wh