[dh@.]

The telescreen barked at him to keep
still. Time passed. Twenty minutes, an hour -- it was difficult to judge.
Once more there was a sound of boots outside. Winston's entrails
contracted. Soon, very soon, perhaps in five minutes, perhaps now, the
tramp of boots would mean that his own turn had come.
The door opened. The cold-faced young officer stepped into the cell.
With a brief movement of the hand he indicated Ampleforth.
'Room 101,' he said.
Ampleforth marched clumsily out between the guards, his face vaguely
perturbed, but uncomprehending.
What seemed like a long time passed. The pain in Winston's belly had
revived. His mind sagged round and round on the same trick, like a ball
falling again and again into the same series of slots. He had only six
thoughts. The pain in his belly; a piece of bread; the blood and the
screaming; O'Brien; Julia; the razor blade. There was another spasm in his
entrails, the heavy boots were approaching. As the door