When it grew worse he thought only of the pain itself, and of his desire for food.
When it grew better, panic took hold of him.
There were moments when he foresaw the things that would happen to him with such actuality that his heart galloped and his breath stopped.
He felt the smash of truncheons on his elbows and iron-shod boots on his shins; he saw himself grovelling on the floor, screaming for mercy through broken teeth.
He hardly thought of Julia.
He could not fix his mind on her.
He loved her and would not betray her; but that was only a fact, known as he knew the rules of arithmetic.
He felt no love for her, and he hardly even wondered what was happening to her.
He thought oftener of O'Brien, with a flickering hope.
O'Brien might know that he had been arrested.
The Brotherhood, he had said, never tried to save its members.
But there was the razor blade; they would send the razor blade if they could.
There would be perhaps five seconds before the guard could rush into the cell.
The blade would bite into him with a sort of burning coldness, and even the fingers that held it would be cut to the bone.
Everything came back to his sick body, which shrank trembling from the smallest pain.
He was not certain that he would use the razor blade even if he got the chance.
It was more natural to exist from moment to moment, accepting another ten minutes' life even with the certainty that there was torture at the end of it.
Sometimes he tried to calculate the number of porcelain bricks in the walls of the cell.
It should have been easy, but he always lost count at some point or another.
More often he wondered where he was, and what time of day it was.
At one moment he felt certain that it was broad daylight outside, and at the next equally certain that it was pitch darkness.
In this place, he knew instinctively, the lights would never be turned out.
It was the place with no darkness: he saw now why O'Brien had seemed to recognize the allusion.
In the Ministry of Love there were no windows.
His cell might be at the heart of the building or against its outer wall; it might be ten floors below ground, or thirty above it.
He moved himself mentally from place to place, and tried to determine by the feeling of his body whether he was perched high in the air or buried deep underground.
There was a sound of marching boots outside.
The steel door opened with a clang.
A young officer, a trim black-uniformed figure who seemed to glitter all over with polished leather, and whose pale, straight-featured face was like a wax mask, stepped smartly through the doorway.
He motioned to the guards outside to bring in the prisoner they were leading.
The poet Ampleforth shambled into the cell.
The door clanged shut again.
Ampleforth made one or two uncertain movements from side to side, as though having some idea that there was another door to go out of, and then began to wander up and down the cell.
He had not yet noticed Winston's presence.
His troubled eyes were gazing at the wall about a metre above the level of Winston's head.
He was shoeless; large, dirty toes were sticking out of the holes in his socks.
He was also several days away from a shave.
A scrubby beard covered his face to the cheekbones, giving him an air of ruffianism that went oddly with his large weak frame and nervous movements.
Winston roused himself a little from his lethargy.
He must speak to Ampleforth, and risk the yell from the telescreen.
It was even conceivable that Ampleforth was the bearer of the razor blade.
'Ampleforth,' he said.
There was no yell from the telescreen.
Ampleforth paused, mildly startled.
His eyes focused themselves slowly on Winston.
'Ah, Smith!' he said. 'You too!'
'What are you in for?'
'To tell you the truth--' He sat down awkwardly on the bench opposite Winston. 'There is only one offence, is there not?' he said.
'And have you committed it?'
'Apparently I have.'