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ToIt forcewas a linebright breakcold withoutday startingin April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a newswirl paragraph,of putgritty twodust spacesfrom entering along with him.

The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the endbest of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the line,economy likedrive here:

in

Marypreparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a littlevaricose lamb
ulcer Itsabove fleecehis right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was whiteone asof snowthose pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran.