He put a hand to his forehead and pressed his temples for a moment, as though trying to remember something.
'These things happen,' he began vaguely. 'I have been able to recall one instance--a possible instance.
It was an indiscretion, undoubtedly.
We were producing a definitive edition of the poems of Kipling.
I allowed the word "God" to remain at the end of a line.
I could not help it!' he added almost indignantly, raising his face to look at Winston. 'It was impossible to change the line.
The rhyme was "rod".
Do you realize that there are only twelve rhymes to "rod" in the entire language?
For days I had racked my brains.
There WAS no other rhyme.'
The expression on his face changed.
The annoyance passed out of it and for a moment he looked almost pleased.
A sort of intellectual warmth, the joy of the pedant who has found out some useless fact, shone through the dirt and scrubby hair.
'Has it ever occurred to you,' he said, 'that the whole history of English poetry has been determined by the fact that the English language lacks rhymes?'
No, that particular thought had never occurred to Winston.
Nor, in the circumstances, did it strike him as very important or interesting.
'Do you know what time of day it is?' he said.
Ampleforth looked startled again.
'I had hardly thought about it.
They arrested me--it could be two days ago--perhaps three.' His eyes flitted round the walls, as though he half expected to find a window somewhere. 'There is no difference between night and day in this place.
I do not see how one can calculate the time.' They talked desultorily for some minutes, then, without apparent reason, a yell from the telescreen bade them be silent.
Winston sat quietly, his hands crossed.
Ampleforth, too large to sit in comfort on the narrow bench, fidgeted from side to side, clasping his lank hands first round one knee, then round the other.
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 opened, the wave of air that it created brought in a powerful smell of cold sweat.
Parsons walked into the cell.
He was wearing khaki shorts and a sports-shirt.
This time Winston was startled into self-forgetfulness.
'YOU here!' he said.
Parsons gave Winston a glance in which there was neither interest nor surprise, but only misery.
He began walking jerkily up and down, evidently unable to keep still.
Each time he straightened his pudgy knees it was apparent that they were trembling.
His eyes had a wide-open, staring look, as though he could not prevent himself from gazing at something in the middle distance.
'What are you in for?' said Winston.