1984

           Hehadgrownfatter,hisvaricoseulcerhadsubsided,leavingonlyabrownstainontheskinabovehisankle,hisfitsofcoughingintheearlymorninghadstopped. Theprocessoflifehadceasedtobeintolerable,hehadnolongeranyimpulsetomakefacesatthetelescreenorshoutcursesatthetopofhisvoice. Nowthattheyhadasecurehiding-place,almostahome,itdidnotevenseemahardshipthattheycouldonlymeetinfrequentlyandforacoupleofhoursatatime. Whatmatteredwasthattheroomoverthejunk-shopshouldexist. Toknowthatitwasthere,inviolate,wasalmostthesameasbeinginit. Theroomwasaworld,apocketofthepastwhereextinctanimalscouldwalk. MrCharrington,thoughtWinston,wasanotherextinctanimal. HeusuallystoppedtotalkwithMrCharringtonforafewminutesonhiswayupstairs. Theoldmanseemedseldomornevertogooutofdoors,andontheotherhandtohavealmostnocustomers. Heledaghostlikeexistencebetweenthetiny,darkshop,andaneventinierbackkitchenwherehepreparedhismealsandwhichcontained,amongotherthings,anunbelievablyancientgramophonewithanenormoushorn. Heseemedgladoftheopportunitytotalk. Wanderingaboutamonghisworthlessstock,withhislongnoseandthickspectaclesandhisbowedshouldersinthevelvetjacket,hehadalwaysvaguelytheairofbeingacollectorratherthanatradesman. Withasortoffadedenthusiasmhewouldfingerthisscrapofrubbishorthat—achinabottle-stopper,thepaintedlidofabrokensnuffbox,apinchbecklocketcontainingastrandofsomelong-deadbaby’shair—neveraskingthatWinstonshouldbuyit,merelythatheshouldadmireit. Totalktohimwaslikelisteningtothetinklingofaworn-outmusical-box.