“If there is hope，” he had written in the diary， “it lies in the proles.” The words kept coming back to him， statement of a mystical truth and a palpable absurdity. He was somewhere in the vague， brown-coloured slums to the north and east of what had once been Saint Pancras Station. He was walking up a cobbled street of little two-storey houses with battered doorways which gave straight on the pavement and which were somehow curiously suggestive of ratholes. There were puddles of filthy water here and there among the cobbles. In and out of the dark doorways， and down narrow alley-ways that branched off on either side， people swarmed in astonishing numbers — girls in full bloom， with crudely lipsticked mouths， and youths who chased the girls， and swollen waddling women who showed you what the girls would be like in ten years’time， and old bent creatures shuffling along on splayed feet， and ragged barefooted children who played in the puddles and then scattered at angry yells from their mothers. Perhaps a quarter of the windows in the street were broken and boarded up. Most of the people paid no attention to Winston； a few eyed him with a sort of guarded curiosity. Two monstrous women with brick-red forearms folded across thelr aprons were talking outside a doorway. Winston caught scraps of conversation as he approached.
“‘Yes，’ I says to’er， ‘that’s all very well，’ I says. ‘But if you’d of been in my place you’d of done the same as what I done. It’s easy to criticize，’ I says，‘but you ain’t got the same problems as what I got.’”
“Ah，” said the other， “that’s jest it. That’s jest where it is.”
The strident voices stopped abruptly. The women studied him in hostile silence as he went past. But it was not hostility， exactly； merely a kind of wariness， a momentary stiffening， as at the passing of some unfamiliar animal. The blue overalls of the Party could not be a common sight in a street like this. Indeed， it was unwise to be seen in such places， unless you had definite business there. The patrols might stop you if you happened to run into them. “May I see your papers， comrade？ What are you doing here？ What time did you leave work？ Is this your usual way home？”— and so on and so forth. Not that there was any rule against walking home by an unusual route： but it was enough to draw attention to you if the Thought Police heard about it.
Suddenly the whole street was in commotion. There were yells of warning from all sides. People were shooting into the doorways like rabbits. A young woman leapt out of a doorway a little ahead of Winston， grabbed up a tiny child playing in a puddle， whipped her apron round it， and leapt back again， all in one movement. At the same instant a man in a concertina-like black suit， who had emerged from a side alley， ran towards Winston， pointing excitedly to the sky.
“Steamer！” he yelled. “Look out， guv’nor！ Bang over’ead！ Lay down quick！”
“Steamer” was a nickname which， for some reason， the proles applied to rocket bombs. Winston promptly flung himself on his face. The proles were nearly always right when they gave you a warning of this kind. They seemed to possess some kind of instinct which told them several seconds in advance when a rocket was coming， although the rockets supposedly travelled faster than sound. Winston clasped his forearms above his head. There was a roar that seemed to make the pavement heave； a shower of light objects pattered on to his back. When he stood up he found that he was covered with fragments of glass from the nearest window.
He walked on. The bomb had demolished a group of houses 200 metres up the street. A black plume of smoke hung in the sky， and below it a cloud of plaster dust in which a crowd was already forming around the ruins. There was a little pile of plaster lying on the pavement ahead of him， and in the middle of it he could see a bright red streak. When he got up to it he saw that it was a human hand severed at the wrist. Apart from the bloody stump， the hand was so completely whitened as to resemble a plaster cast.
He kicked the thing into the gutter， and then， to avoid the crowd， turned down a side-street to the right. Within three or four minutes he was out of the area which the bomb had affected， and the sordid swarming life of the streets was going on as though nothing had happened. It was nearly twenty hours， and the drinking-shops which the proles frequented （“pubs”， they called them） were choked with customers. From their grimy swing doors， endlessly opening and shutting， there came forth a smell of urine， sawdust， and sour beer. In an angle formed by a projecting house-front three men were standing very close together， the middle one of them holding a folded-up newspaper which the other two were studying over his shoulder. Even before he was near enough to make out the expression on their faces， Winston could see absorption in every line of their bodies. It was obviously some serious piece of news that they were reading. He was a few paces away from them when suddenly the group broke up and two of the men were in violent altercation. For a moment they seemed almost on the point of blows.
“Can’t you bleeding well listen to what I say？ I tell you no number ending in seven ain’t won for over fourteen months！”
“Yes， it ’as， then！”
“No， it’as not！ Back ’ome I got the ’ole lot of ’em for over two years wrote down on a piece of paper. I takes ’em down reg’lar as the clock. An’ I tell you， no number ending in seven—”
“Yes， a seven ’as won！ I could pretty near tell you the bleeding number. Four oh seven， it ended in. It were in February — second week in February.”
“February your grandmother！ I got it all down in black and white. An’ I tell you， no number—”
“Oh， pack it in！” said the third man.