The quacking voice from the next table， temporarily silenced during the Ministry’s announcement， had started up again， as loud as ever. For some reason Winston suddenly found himself thinking of Mrs. Parsons， with her wispy hair and the dust in the creases of her face. Within two years those children would be denouncing her to the Thought Police. Mrs. Parsons would be vaporized. Syme would be vaporized. Winston would be vaporized. O’Brien would be vaporized. Parsons， on the other hand， would never be vaporized. The eyeless creature with the quacking voice would never be vaporized. The little beetle-like men who scuttle so nimbly through the labyrinthine corridors of Ministries they， too， would never be vaporized.
And the girl with dark hair， the girl from the Fiction Department — she would never be vaporized either. It seemed to him that he knew instinctively who would survive and who would perish： though just what it was that made for survival， it was not easy to say.
At this moment he was dragged out of his reverie with a violent jerk. The girl at the next table had turned partly round and was looking at him. It was the girl with dark hair. She was looking at him in a sidelong way， but with curious intensity. The instant she caught his eye she looked away again.
The sweat started out on Winston’s backbone. A horrible pang of terror went through him. It was gone almost at once， but it left a sort of nagging uneasiness behind. Why was she watching him？ Why did she keep following him about？ Unfortunately he could not remember whether she had already been at the table when he arrived， or had come there afterwards. But yesterday， at any rate， during the Two Minutes Hate， she had sat immediately behind him when there was no apparent need to do so. Quite likely her real object had been to listen to him and make sure whether he was shouting loudly enough.
His earlier thought returned to him： probably she was not actually a member of the Thought Police， but then it was precisely the amateur spy who was the greatest danger of all. He did not know how long she had been looking at him， but perhaps for as much as five minutes， and it was possible that his features had not been perfectly under control. It was terribly dangerous to let your thoughts wander when you were in any public place or within range of a telescreen. The smallest thing could give you away. A nervous tic， an unconscious look of anxiety， a habit of muttering to yourself — anything that carried with it the suggestion of abnormality， of having something to hide. In any case， to wear an improper expression on your face （to look incredulous when a victory was announced， for example） was itself a punishable offence. There was even a word for it in Newspeak： facecrime， it was called.
The girl had turned her back on him again. Perhaps after all she was not really following him about， perhaps it was coincidence that she had sat so close to him two days running. His cigarette had gone out， and he laid it carefully on the edge of the table. He would finish smoking it after work， if he could keep the tobacco in it. Quite likely the person at the next table was a spy of the Thought Police， and quite likely he would be in the cellars of the Ministry of Love within three days， but a cigarette end must not be wasted. Syme had folded up his strip of paper and stowed it away in his pocket. Parsons had begun talking again.
“Did I ever tell you， old boy，” he said， chuckling round the stem of his pipe， “about the time when those two nippers of mine set fire to the old market-woman’s skirt because they saw her wrapping up sausages in a poster of B.B.？ Sneaked up behind her and set fire to it with a box of matches. Burned her quite badly， I believe. Little beggars， eh？ But keen as mustard！ That’s a first-rate training they give them in the Spies nowadays — better than in my day， even. What d’you think’s the latest thing they’ve served them out with？ Ear trumpets for listening through keyholes！ My little girl brought one home the other night — tried it out on our sitting-room door， and reckoned she could hear twice as much as with her ear to the hole. Of course it’s only a toy， mind you. Still， gives’em the right idea， eh？”
At this moment the telescreen let out a piercing whistle. It was the signal to return to work. All three men sprang to their feet to join in the struggle round the lifts， and the remaining tobacco fell out of Winston’s cigarette.
英文六
Winston was writing in his diary：
For the moment it was too difficult to go on. He shut his eyes and pressed his fingers against them， trying to squeeze out the vision that kept recurring. He had an almost overwhelming temptation to shout a string of filthy words at the top of his voice. Or to bang his head against the wall， to kick over the table， and hurl the inkpot through the window — to do any violent or noisy or painful thing that might black out the memory that was tormenting him.
Your worst enemy， he reflected， was your own nervous system. At any moment the tension inside you was liable to translate itself into some visible symptom. He thought of a man whom he had passed in the street a few weeks back； a quite ordinary-looking man， a Party member， aged thirty-five to forty， tallish and thin， carrying a brief-case. They were a few metres apart when the left side of the man’s face was suddenly contorted by a sort of spasm. It happened again just as they were passing one another： it was only a twitch， a quiver， rapid as the clicking of a camera shutter， but obviously habitual. He remembered thinking at the time： That poor devil is done for. And what was frightening was that the action was quite possibly unconscious. The most deadly danger of all was talking in your sleep. There was no way of guarding against that， so far as he could see.
He drew his breath and went on writing：