1984

           Henoticedthathebadlywantedtourinate,andfeltafaintsurprise,becausehehaddonesoonlytwoorthreehoursago. Henoticedthattheclockonthemantelpiecesaidnine,meaningtwenty-one. Butthelightseemedtoostrong. Wouldnotthelightbefadingattwenty-onehoursonanAugustevening? HewonderedwhetherafterallheandJuliahadmistakenthetime—hadslepttheclockroundandthoughtitwastwenty-thirtywhenreallyitwasnoughteight-thirtyonthefollowingmorning. Buthedidnotpursuethethoughtfurther. Itwasnotinteresting. 

           Therewasanother,lighterstepinthepassage. MrCharringtoncameintotheroom. Thedemeanouroftheblack-uniformedmensuddenlybecamemoresubdued. SomethinghadalsochangedinMrCharrington’sappearance. Hiseyefellonthefragmentsoftheglasspaperweight. 

           ‘Pickupthosepieces,’hesaidsharply. 

           Amanstoopedtoobey. Thecockneyaccenthaddisappeared; Winstonsuddenlyrealizedwhosevoiceitwasthathehadheardafewmomentsagoonthetelescreen. MrCharringtonwasstillwearinghisoldvelvetjacket,buthishair,whichhadbeenalmostwhite,hadturnedblack. Alsohewasnotwearinghisspectacles. HegaveWinstonasinglesharpglance,asthoughverifyinghisidentity,andthenpaidnomoreattentiontohim. Hewasstillrecognizable,buthewasnotthesamepersonanylonger. Hisbodyhadstraightened,andseemedtohavegrownbigger. Hisfacehadundergoneonlytinychangesthathadneverthelessworkedacompletetransformation.