1984

           Hestopped,turnedasideandpressedaswitchonthewall. Therewasasharpsnap. Thevoicehadstopped. 

           Juliautteredatinysound,asortofsqueakofsurprise. Eveninthemidstofhispanic,Winstonwastoomuchtakenabacktobeabletoholdhistongue. 

           ‘Youcanturnitoff!’hesaid. 

           ‘Yes,’saidO’Brien,‘wecanturnitoff. Wehavethatprivilege.’ 

           Hewasoppositethemnow. Hissolidformtoweredoverthepairofthem,andtheexpressiononhisfacewasstillindecipherable. Hewaswaiting,somewhatsternly,forWinstontospeak,butaboutwhat? Evennowitwasquiteconceivablethathewassimplyabusymanwonderingirritablywhyhehadbeeninterrupted. Nobodyspoke. Afterthestoppingofthetelescreentheroomseemeddeadlysilent. Thesecondsmarchedpast,enormous. WithdifficultyWinstoncontinuedtokeephiseyesfixedonO’Brien’s. Thensuddenlythegrimfacebrokedownintowhatmighthavebeenthebeginningsofasmile. WithhischaracteristicgestureO’Brienresettledhisspectaclesonhisnose. 

           ‘ShallIsayit,orwillyou?’hesaid. 

           ‘Iwillsayit,’saidWinstonpromptly. ‘Thatthingisreallyturnedoff?’ 

           ‘Yes,everythingisturnedoff.Wearealone.’ 

           ‘Wehavecomeherebecause——’ 

           Hepaused,realizingforthefirsttimethevaguenessofhisownmotives.