There was a dull aching in his belly5. It had been there ever since they had bundled him into the closed van and driven him away. But he was also hungry, with a gnawing6, unwholesome kind of hunger. It might be twenty-four hours since he had eaten, it might be thirty-six. He still did not know, probably never would know, whether it had been morning or evening when they arrested him. Since he was arrested he had not been fed.
He sat as still as he could on the narrow bench, with his hands crossed on his knee. He had already learned to sit still. If you made unexpected movements they yelled at you from the telescreen. But the craving7 for food was growing upon him. What he longed for above all was a piece of bread. He had an idea that there were a few breadcrumbs in the pocket of his overalls8. It was even possible -- he thought this because from time to time something seemed to tickle9 his leg -- that there might be a sizeable bit of crust there. In the end the temptation to find out overcame his fear; he slipped a hand into his pocket.
'Smith!' yelled a voice from the telescreen. '6079 Smith W.! Hands out of pockets in the cells!'
He sat still again, his hands crossed on his knee. Before being brought here he had been taken to another place which must have been an ordinary prison or a temporary lock-up used by the patrols. He did not know how long he had been there; some hours at any rate; with no clocks and no daylight it was hard to gauge11 the time. It was a noisy, evil-smelling place. They had put him into a cell similar to the one he was now in, but filthily12 dirty and at all times crowded by ten or fifteen people. The majority of them were common criminals, but there were a few political prisoners among them. He had sat silent against the wall, jostled by dirty bodies, too preoccupied13 by fear and the pain in his belly to take much interest in his surroundings, but still noticing the astonishing difference in demeanour between the Party prisoners and the others. The Party prisoners were always silent and terrified, but the ordinary criminals seemed to care nothing for anybody. They yelled insults at the guards, fought back fiercely when their belongings14 were impounded, wrote obscene words on the floor, ate smuggled16 food which they produced from mysterious hiding-places in their clothes, and even shouted down the telescreen when it tried to restore order. On the other hand some of them seemed to be on good terms with the guards, called them by nicknames, and tried to wheedle17 cigarettes through the spyhole in the door. The guards, too, treated the common criminals with a certain forbearance, even when they had to handle them roughly. There was much talk about the forced-labour camps to which most of the prisoners expected to be sent. It was 'all right' in the camps, he gathered, so long as you had good contacts and knew the ropes. There was bribery18, favouritism, and racketeering of every kind, there was homosexuality and prostitution, there was even illicit19 alcohol distilled20 from potatoes. The positions of trust were given only to the common criminals, especially the gangsters21 and the murderers, who formed a sort of aristocracy. All the dirty jobs were done by the politicals.
There was a constant come-and-go of prisoners of every description: drug-peddlers, thieves, bandits, black-marketeers, drunks, prostitutes. Some of the drunks were so violent that the other prisoners had to combine to suppress them. An enormous wreck22 of a woman, aged23 about sixty, with great tumbling breasts and thick coils of white hair which had come down in her struggles, was carried in, kicking and shouting, by four guards, who had hold of her one at each corner. They wrenched25 off the boots with which she had been trying to kick them, and dumped her down across Winston's lap, almost breaking his thigh-bones. The woman hoisted26 herself upright and followed them out with a yell of 'F -- bastards27!' Then, noticing that she was sitting on something uneven28, she slid off Winston's knees on to the bench.
'Beg pardon, dearie,' she said. 'I wouldn't 'a sat on you, only the buggers put me there. They dono 'ow to treat a lady, do they?' She paused, patted her breast, and belched29. 'Pardon,' she said, 'I ain't meself, quite.'
She leant forward and vomited30 copiously32 on the floor.
'Thass better,' she said, leaning back with closed eyes. 'Never keep it down, thass what I say. Get it up while it's fresh on your stomach, like.'
She revived, turned to have another look at Winston and seemed immediately to take a fancy to him. She put a vast arm round his shoulder and drew him towards her, breathing beer and vomit31 into his face.
'Wass your name, dearie?' she said.
'Smith,' said Winston.
'Smith?' said the woman. 'Thass funny. My name's Smith too. Why,' she added sentimentally33, 'I might be your mother!'
She might, thought Winston, be his mother. She was about the right age and physique, and it was probable that people changed somewhat after twenty years in a forced-labour camp.
No one else had spoken to him. To a surprising extent the ordinary criminals ignored the Party prisoners. 'The polits,' they called them, with a sort of uninterested contempt. The Party prisoners seemed terrified of speaking to anybody, and above all of speaking to one another. Only once, when two Party members, both women, were pressed close together on the bench, he overheard amid the din10 of voices a few hurriedly-whispered words; and in particular a reference to something called 'room one-oh-one', which he did not understand.
It might be two or three hours ago that they had brought him here. The dull pain in his belly never went away, but sometimes it grew better and sometimes worse, and his thoughts expanded or contracted accordingly. 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 galloped34 and his breath stopped. He felt the smash of truncheons on his elbows and iron-shod boots on his shins; he saw himself grovelling35 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 flickering36 hope. O'Brien might know that he had been arrested. The Brotherhood37, 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 instinctively38, 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 allusion39. 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 doorway40. 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 hirnself 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?'
'Apparently41 I have.'
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 vaguely42. 'I have been able to recall one instance -- a possible instance. It was an indiscretion, undoubtedly43. We were producing a definitive44 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 annoyance45 passed out of it and for a moment he looked almost pleased. A sort of intellectual warmth, the joy of the pedant46 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 determined47 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 desultorily48 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 lank49 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 perturbed50, but uncomprehending.
What seemed like a long time passed. The pain in Winston's belly had revived. His mind sagged51 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 spasm52 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 misery53. 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.
'Thoughtcrime!' said Parsons, almost blubbering. The tone of his voice implied at once a complete admission of his guilt54 and a sort of incredulous horror that such a word could be applied55 to himself. He paused opposite Winston and began eagerly appealing to him: 'You don't think they'll shoot me, do you, old chap? They don't shoot you if you haven't actually done anything -- only thoughts, which you can't help? I know they give you a fair hearing. Oh, I trust them for that! They'll know my record, won't they? You know what kind of chap I was. Not a bad chap in my way. Not brainy, of course, but keen. I tried to do my best for the Party, didn't I? I'll get off with five years, don't you think? Or even ten years? A chap like me could make himself pretty useful in a labour-camp. They wouldn't shoot me for going off the rails just once?'
'Are you guilty?' said Winston.
'Of course I'm guilty!' cried Parsons with a servile glance at the telescreen. 'You don't think the Party would arrest an innocent man, do you?' His frog-like face grew calmer, and even took on a slightly sanctimonious56 expression. 'Thoughtcrime is a dreadful thing, old man,' he said sententiously. 'It's insidious57. It can get hold of you without your even knowing it. Do you know how it got hold of me? In my sleep! Yes, that's a fact. There I was, working away, trying to do my bit -- never knew I had any bad stuff in my mind at all. And then I started talking in my sleep. Do you know what they heard me saying?'
He sank his voice, like someone who is obliged for medical reasons to utter an obscenity.
"Down with Big Brother!" Yes, I said that! Said it over and over again, it seems. Between you and me, old man, I'm glad they got me before it went any further. Do you know what I'm going to say to them when I go up before the tribunal? "Thank you," I'm going to say, "thank you for saving me before it was too late."
'Who denounced you?' said Winston.
'It was my little daughter,' said Parsons with a sort of doleful pride. 'She listened at the keyhole. Heard what I was saying, and nipped off to the patrols the very next day. Pretty smart for a nipper of seven, eh? I don't bear her any grudge58 for it. In fact I'm proud of her. It shows I brought her up in the right spirit, anyway.'
He made a few more jerky movements up and down, several times, casting a longing15 glance at the lavatory pan. Then he suddenly ripped down his shorts.
'Excuse me, old man,' he said. 'I can't help it. It's the waiting.'
He plumped his large posterior into the lavatory pan. Winston covered his face with his hands.
'Smith!' yelled the voice from the telescreen. '6079 Smith W! Uncover your face. No faces covered in the cells.'
Winston uncovered his face. Parsons used the lavatory, loudly and abundantly. It then turned out that the plug was defective59 and the cell stank60 abominably61 for hours afterwards.
Parsons was removed. More prisoners came and went, mysteriously. One, a woman, was consigned62 to 'Room 101', and, Winston noticed, seemed to shrivel and turn a different colour when she heard the words. A time came when, if it had been morning when he was brought here, it would be afternoon; or if it had been afternoon, then it would be midnight. There were six prisoners in the cell, men and women. All sat very still. Opposite Winston there sat a man with a chinless, toothy face exactly like that of some large, harmless rodent63. His fat, mottled cheeks were so pouched64 at the bottom that it was difficult not to believe that he had little stores of food tucked away there. His pale-grey eyes flitted timorously65 from face to face and turned quickly away again when he caught anyone's eye.
The door opened, and another prisoner was brought in whose appearance sent a momentary66 chill through Winston. He was a commonplace, mean-looking man who might have been an engineer or technician of some kind. But what was startling was the emaciation67 of his face. It was like a skull68. Because of its thinness the mouth and eyes looked disproportionately large, and the eyes seemed filled with a murderous, unappeasable hatred69 of somebody or something.
The man sat down on the bench at a little distance from Winston. Winston did not look at him again, but the tormented70, skull-like face was as vivid in his mind as though it had been straight in front of his eyes. Suddenly he realized what was the matter. The man was dying of starvation. The same thought seemed to occur almost simultaneously71 to everyone in the cell. There was a very faint stirring all the way round the bench. The eyes of the chinless man kept flitting towards the skull-faced man, then turning guiltily away, then being dragged back by an irresistible72 attraction. Presently he began to fidget on his seat. At last he stood up, waddled73 clumsily across the cell, dug down into the pocket of his overalls, and, with an abashed74 air, held out a grimy piece of bread to the skull-faced man.
There was a furious, deafening75 roar from the telescreen. The chinless man jumped in his tracks. The skull-faced man had quickly thrust his hands behind his back, as though demonstrating to all the world that he refused the gift.
'Bumstead!' roared the voice. '2713 Bumstead J.! Let fall that piece of bread!'
The chinless man dropped the piece of bread on the floor.
'Remain standing76 where you are,' said the voice. 'Face the door. Make no movement.'
The chinless man obeyed. His large pouchy77 cheeks were quivering uncontrollably. The door clanged open. As the young officer entered and stepped aside, there emerged from behind him a short stumpy guard with enormous arms and shoulders. He took his stand opposite the chinless man, and then, at a signal from the officer, let free a frightful78 blow, with all the weight of his body behind it, full in the chinless man's mouth. The force of it seemed almost to knock him clear of the floor. His body was flung across the cell and fetched up against the base of the lavatory seat. For a moment he lay as though stunned79, with dark blood oozing80 from his mouth and nose. A very faint whimpering or squeaking81, which seemed unconscious, came out of him. Then he rolled over and raised himself unsteadily on hands and knees. Amid a stream of blood and saliva82, the two halves of a dental plate fell out of his mouth.
The prisoners sat very still, their hands crossed on their knees. The chinless man climbed back into his place. Down one side of his face the flesh was darkening. His mouth had swollen83 into a shapeless cherry-coloured mass with a black hole in the middle of it.
From time to time a little blood dripped on to the breast of his overalls. His grey eyes still flitted from face to face, more guiltily than ever, as though he were trying to discover how much the others despised him for his humiliation84.
The door opened. With a small gesture the officer indicated the skull-faced man.
'Room 101,' he said.
There was a gasp85 and a flurry at Winston's side. The man had actually flung himself on his knees on the floor, with his hand clasped together.
'Comrade! Officer!' he cried. 'You don't have to take me to that place! Haven't I told you everything already? What else is it you want to know? There's nothing I wouldn't confess, nothing! Just tell me what it is and I'll confess straight off. Write it down and I'll sign it -- anything! Not room 101!'
'Room 101,' said the officer.
The man's face, already very pale, turned a colour Winston would not have believed possible. It was definitely, unmistakably, a shade of green.
'Do anything to me!' he yelled. 'You've been starving me for weeks. Finish it off and let me die. Shoot me. Hang me. Sentence me to twenty-five years. Is there somebody else you want me to give away? Just say who it is and I'll tell you anything you want. I don't care who it is or what you do to them. I've got a wife and three children. The biggest of them isn't six years old. You can take the whole lot of them and cut their throats in front of my eyes, and I'll stand by and watch it. But not Room 101!'
'Room 101,' said the officer.
The man looked frantically86 round at the other prisoners, as though with some idea that he could put another victim in his own place. His eyes settled on the smashed face of the chinless man. He flung out a lean arm.
'That's the one you ought to be taking, not me!' he shouted. 'You didn't hear what he was saying after they bashed his face. Give me a chance and I'll tell you every word of it. He's the one that's against the Party, not me.' The guards stepped forward. The man's voice rose to a shriek87. 'You didn't hear him!' he repeated. 'Something went wrong with the telescreen. He's the one you want. Take him, not me!'
The two sturdy guards had stooped to take him by the arms. But just at this moment he flung himself across the floor of the cell and grabbed one of the iron legs that supported the bench. He had set up a wordless howling, like an animal. The guards took hold of him to wrench24 him loose, but he clung on with astonishing strength. For perhaps twenty seconds they were hauling at him. The prisoners sat quiet, their hands crossed on their knees, looking straight in front of them. The howling stopped; the man had no breath left for anything except hanging on. Then there was a different kind of cry. A kick from a guard's boot had broken the fingers of one of his hands. They dragged him to his feet.
'Room 101,' said the officer.
The man was led out, walking unsteadily, with head sunken, nursing his crushed hand, all the fight had gone out of him.
A long time passed. If it had been midnight when the skull-faced man was taken away, it was morning: if morning, it was afternoon. Winston was alone, and had been alone for hours. The pain of sitting on the narrow bench was such that often he got up and walked about, unreproved by the telescreen. The piece of bread still lay where the chinless man had dropped it. At the beginning it needed a hard effort not to look at it, but presently hunger gave way to thirst. His mouth was sticky and evil-tasting. The humming sound and the unvarying white light induced a sort of faintness, an empty feeling inside his head. He would get up because the ache in his bones was no longer bearable, and then would sit down again almost at once because he was too dizzy to make sure of staying on his feet. Whenever his physical sensations were a little under control the terror returned. Sometimes with a fading hope he thought of O'Brien and the razor blade. It was thinkable that the razor blade might arrive concealed in his food, if he were ever fed. More dimly he thought of Julia. Somewhere or other she was suffering perhaps far worse than he. She might be screaming with pain at this moment. He thought: 'If I could save Julia by doubling my own pain, would I do it? Yes, I would.' But that was merely an intellectual decision, taken because he knew that he ought to take it. He did not feel it. In this place you could not feel anything, except pain and foreknowledge of pain. Besides, was it possible, when you were actually suffering it, to wish for any reason that your own pain should increase? But that question was not answerable yet.
The boots were approaching again. The door opened. O'Brien came in.
Winston started to his feet. The shock of the sight had driven all caution out of him. For the first time in many years he forgot the presence of the telescreen.
'They've got you too!' he cried.
'They got me a long time ago,' said O'Brien with a mild, almost regretful irony88. He stepped aside. From behind him there emerged a broad-chested guard with a long black truncheon in his hand.
'You know him, Winston,' said O'Brien. 'Don't deceive yourself. You did know it -- you have always known it.'
Yes, he saw now, he had always known it. But there was no time to think of that. All he had eyes for was the truncheon in the guard's hand. It might fall anywhere; on the crown, on the tip of the ear, on the upper arm, on the elbow --
The elbow! He had slumped89 to his knees, almost paralysed, clasping the stricken elbow with his other hand. Everything had exploded into yellow light. Inconceivable, inconceivable that one blow could cause such pain! The light cleared and he could see the other two looking down at him. The guard was laughing at his contortions90. One question at any rate was answered. Never, for any reason on earth, could you wish for an increase of pain. Of pain you could wish only one thing: that it should stop. Nothing in the world was so bad as physical pain. In the face of pain there are no heroes, no heroes, he thought over and over as he writhed91 on the floor, clutching uselessly at his disabled left arm.
他不知道自己身在何处，大概是在友爱部里，但是没有办法弄清楚。
他是在一间房顶很高、没有窗户的牢房里，四壁是亮晶晶的白色瓷砖。隐蔽的灯使得屋子里有一阵凉意，屋于里有一阵轻轻的嗡嗡声不断，他想大概同空气传送设备有关系。
墙边有一条长板凳，或者说是木架，宽度只够一屁股坐下，但是却很长，围着四壁，到了门口才中断。在对门的一面，有个便盆，但没有坐圈。每道墙上都有个电幕，一共四个。
他的肚子感到隐隐作痛。自从他们把他扔进警车带走以后，就一直肚子痛。他也感到饥肠辘辘，饿得难受。他可能有二十四小时没有吃东西了，也可能是三十六小时。他仍不知道他们逮捕他的时候究竟是早上还是晚上，也许永远不会弄清楚了。反正他遭到逮捕以后没有吃过东西。
他尽可能安静地在狭长的板凳上坐着，双手交叠地放在膝上。他已经学会安静地坐着了。如果你随便乱动，他们就会从电幕中向你吆喝。但是他肚子饿得慌。他最想吃的是一片面包。他仿佛记得工作服口袋里还有些碎面包。甚至很可能还有很大的一块，他所以这么想，是因为他的腿部不时碰到一块什么东西。最后他忍不住要想弄个明白，就胆大起来，伸手到口袋里。
“史密斯！”电幕上一个声音嚷道。“6079号史密斯！在牢房里不许把手插入口袋！”
他又一动不动地坐着，双手交叠放在膝上。他被带到这里来以前曾经给带到另外一个地方，那大概是个普通监狱，或者是巡逻队的临时拘留所。他不知道在那里呆了多久，顶多几个小时，没有钟，也没有阳光，很难确定时间。那是个吵闹、发臭的地方。他们把他关在一间象现在这间一样的牢房里，但是很脏很臭，经常关着十多个人。他们大多数人是普通罪犯，不过中间有少数几个政治犯。他静静地靠墙坐着，夹在肮脏的人体之间，心里感到害怕，肚子又痛，因此没有怎么注意周围环境，但是仍旧发现党员囚犯同别的囚犯在举止上有惊人的区别。党员囚犯都一声不响，心里给吓怕了，但是普通囚犯对不论什么事情，或者什么人都毫不在乎。他们大声辱骂警卫，个人财物被没收时拼命争夺，在地板上涂写淫秽的话，吃着偷送进来的东西，这都是他们从衣服里不知什么地方拿出来的，甚至在电幕叫他们安静时也大声反唇相讥。另外一方面，他们有几个人同警卫似乎关系很友善，叫他们绰号，在门上监视洞里把香烟塞过去。警卫们对普通罪犯也似乎比较宽宏大量，即使在不得不用暴力对付他们的时候也是如此。大多数人都要送到强制劳动营中去，因此关于这方面情况有不少谈论。他心里猜想，在劳动营里倒“不错”，只要你有适当的联系，知道周围环境。少不了贿赂、优待、各种各样的投机倒把，少不了玩弄男色和出卖女色，甚至还有用土豆酿制的非法酒精。可以信赖的事都是交给普通罪犯做的，特别是交给匪棍、凶手做的，他们无异是狱中贵族。所有肮脏的活儿都由政治犯来干。
各种各样的囚犯不断进进出出：毒贩、小偷、土匪、黑市商人、酒鬼、妓女。有些酒鬼发起酒疯来需要别的囚犯一起动手才能把他们制服。有一个大块头的女人，大约有六十岁了，乳房大得垂在胸前，因为拼命挣扎，披着一头乱蓬蓬的白发被四个警卫一人抓住一条胳膊或腿抬了进来，她一边还挣扎着乱踢乱打，嘴里大声喊叫。他们把她要想蹋他们的鞋子脱了下来，一把将她扔在温斯顿的身上，几乎把他的大腿骨都坐断了。那个女人坐了起来，向着退出去的警卫大声骂了一句：“操你们这些婊子养的！”她从温斯顿身上滑下来，坐在板凳上。
“对不起，亲爱的，”她说。“全是这些混蛋，要不，我是不会坐在你身上的。他们碰到一个太太连规矩也不懂。”她停了下来，拍拍胸脯，打了一个嗝。“对不起，”她说，“我有点不好过。”
她向前一俯，哇的一声吐了一地。
“这样好多了，”她说，回身靠在墙上，闭着眼睛。“要是忍不住，马上就吐，我是这么说的。趁还没有下肚就把它吐出来。”
她恢复了精神，转过身来又看一眼温斯顿，好象马上看中了他。她的极大的胳膊搂着温斯顿的肩膀，把他拉了过来，一阵啤酒和呕吐的气味直扑他的脸上。
“你叫什么名字，亲爱的？”她问。
“史密斯，”温斯顿说。
“史密斯？”那女人问。“真好玩。我也叫史密斯。唉。”她又感慨地说，“也许我就是你的母亲！”
温斯顿想，她很可能就是他的母亲。她的年龄体格都相当，很有可能，在强制劳动营呆了二十年以后，外表是会发生一些变化的。
除此之外，没有人同他谈过话。令人奇怪的是，普通罪犯从来不理会党员罪犯。他们叫他们是“政犯”，带有一种不感兴趣的轻蔑味道。党员罪犯似乎怕同别人说话，尤其是怕同别的党员罪犯说话。只有一次，有两个女党员在板凳上挨在一起，于是他在嘈杂人声中听到她们匆忙交换的几句低声的话，特别是提到什么“101 号房”，他不知道是指什么。
他们大概是在两三小时以前把他带到这里来的，他肚子的隐痛从来没有消失过，不过有时候好些，有时候坏些，他的思想也随之放松或者收缩。肚子痛得厉害时，他就一心只惦记着痛，惦记着饿。肚子痛得好些时，恐惧就袭心。有时他想到自己会碰到什么下场，仿佛真的发生一般，心就怦怦乱跳，呼吸就几乎要停止了。他仿佛感到橡皮棍打在他的手肘上，钉着铁掌的皮靴踩在他的肋骨上了。他仿佛看到自己匍伏在地上，从打掉了牙的牙缝里大声呼救求饶。他很少想到裘莉亚。他不能集中思想在她身上。他爱她，不会出卖她；但这只是个事实，象他知道的算术规律一样明白。但这时他心中想不起她，他甚至没有想到过她会有什么下场。他倒常常想到奥勃良，怀着一线希望。奥勃良一定知道他被逮捕了。他说过，兄弟会是从来不想去救会员的。不过有刮胡子的刀片，他们如果能够的话会送刮胡子刀片进来的。在警卫冲进来以前只要五秒钟就够了。刮胡子刀片就可以割破喉管，又冷又麻，甚至拿着刀片的手指也会割破，割到骨头上。
他全身难受，什么感觉都恢复了，稍为碰一下就会使他痛得哆嗦着往后缩。他即使有机会，他也没有把握会不会用刀片。过一天算一天，似乎更自然一些，多活十分钟也好，即使明知道最后要受到拷打。
有时他想数一数牢房墙上有多少块瓷砖。这应该不难，但数着数着他就忘了已数过多少。他想的比较多的是自己究竟在什么地方，时间是什么时候。有一次，他觉得很肯定，外面一定是白天，但马上又很肯定地认为，外面是漆黑一团。
他凭直觉知道，在这样的地方，灯光是永远不会熄灭的。这是个没有黑暗的地方：他现在明白了为什么奥勃良似乎理会这个比喻。在友爱部里没有窗户。他的牢房可能位于大楼的中央，也可能靠着外墙；可能在地下十层，也可能在地上三十层。他在心里想象着这一个个地方，要想根据自己身体的感觉来断定，究竟高高地在空中，还是深深地在地下。
外面有皮靴咔嚓声。铁门砰的打开了。一个年轻军官潇洒地走了进来。他穿着黑制服的身躯细而长，全身似乎都发出擦亮的皮靴的光泽，他的线条笔挺的苍白的脸好象蜡制的面具。他叫门外的警卫把犯人带进来。诗人安普尔福思踉跄进了牢房。门又砰的关上了。
安普尔福思向左右做了个迟疑的动作，仿佛以为还有一扇门可以出去，接着就在牢房里来回踱起步来。他没有注意到温斯顿也在屋里。他的发愁的眼光凝视着温斯顿头上约一公尺的墙上。他脚上没有穿鞋，破袜洞里露着肮脏的脚趾。
他也有好几天没有刮胡子了。脸上须根毛茸茸的，一直长到颧骨上，使他看上去象个恶棍，这种神情同他高大而孱弱的身躯和神经质的动作很不相称。
温斯顿从懒洋洋的惰性中振作起一些来。他一定得同安普尔福思说话，即使遭到电幕的叱骂也不怕。甚至很可能安普尔福思就是送刀片来的人。
“安普尔福思，”他说。
电幕上没有吆喝声。安普尔福思停下步来，有点吃惊。
他的眼睛慢慢地把焦点集中到了温斯顿身上。
“啊，史密斯！”他说，“你也在这里！”
“你来干什么？”
“老实跟你说——”他笨手笨脚地坐在温斯顿对面的板凳上。“只有一个罪，不是吗？”他说。
“那你犯了这个罪？”
“看来显然是这样。”
他把一只手放在额上，按着太阳穴，这样过了一会儿，好象竭力要想记起一件什么事情来。
“这样的事情是会发生的，”他含糊其词地说，“我可以举一个例子——一个可能的例子。没有疑问，这是一时不慎。
我们在出版一部吉卜林诗集的权威版本。我没有把一句诗的最后一个字‘神’改掉。我没有办法！”他几乎气愤地说，抬起头来看着温斯顿。“这一行诗没法改。押的韵是‘杖’①。全部词汇里能押这个韵的就只有十二个字。我好几天绞尽脑汁，想不出别的字来。”
注①英语神(god)和(rod)同韵。——译者他脸上的表情改了样，烦恼的神情消失了，甚至出现了几乎高兴的神情。他尽管蓬首垢面，却闪耀着一种智慧的光芒，书呆子发现一些没有用处的事实时所感到的喜悦。
“你有没有想到，”他说，“英国诗歌的全部历史是由英语缺韵这个事实所决定的？”
没有，温斯顿从来没有想到过这一点。而且在目前这样的情况下，他也不觉得这一点有什么重要或者对它有什么兴趣。
“你知道现在是什么时候了？”他问。
安普尔福思又愕了一下。“我根本没有想到。他们逮捕我可能是在两天以前，也可能是在三天以前。”他的眼光在四周墙上转来转去，好象是要找个窗户。“在这个地方，白天黑夜没有什么两样。我看不出你怎么能算出时间来。”
他们又随便谈了几句，接着电幕上毫无理由地吆喝一声，不许他们再说话。温斯顿默默地坐着，双手交叠。安普尔福思个子太大，坐在板凳上不舒服，老是左右挪动，双手先是握在一个膝盖上，过了一会又握在另外一个膝盖上。电幕发出吆喝，要他保持安静不动。时间就这样过去。二十分钟，一个小时——究竟多久，很难断定。接着外面又是一阵皮靴声。温斯顿五脏六腑都收缩起来。快了，很快，也许五分钟，也许马上，皮靴咔嚓声可能意味着现在轮到他了。
门打开了。那个脸上冷冰冰的年轻军官进了牢房。他的手轻轻一动，指着安普尔福思。
“101号房，”他说。
安普尔福思夹在警卫中间踉跄地走了出去，他的脸似乎有点不安，但看不透他。
过了很长的一段时间。温斯顿的肚子又痛了。他的念头一而再再而三地在一条轨道上转着，好象一个球不断地掉到同一条槽里。他只有六个念头：肚子痛、一片面包、流血和叫喊、奥勃良、裘莉亚、刀片。他的五脏六腑又是一阵痉挛；皮靴咔嚓声又走近了。门一开，送进来一阵强烈的汗臭。派逊斯走进了牢房。他穿着卡其短裤和运动衫。
这一次是温斯顿吃惊得忘掉了自己。
“你也来了！”他说。
派逊斯看了温斯顿一眼，既不感到兴趣，也不感到惊异，只有可怜相。他开始来回走动，不能安静下来。每次他伸直胖乎乎的膝盖时可以看出膝盖在哆嗦。他的眼光停滞，好象无法使自己不呆呆地看着眼前不远的地方。
“你到这里来干什么？”温斯顿问。
“思想罪！”派逊斯说，几乎发不出清楚的音来。他的说话腔调表明，他既完全承认自己的罪行，却又不能相信这样的话居然可以适用到自己身上。他在温斯顿前面停了下来，开始热切地求他：“你想他们不会枪毙我的吧？老兄，你说他们会不会？如果你没有干过什么事情，只是有过什么思想，而你又没有办法防止这种思想。他们不会枪毙你的吧？我知道他们会给你一个机会叫你申辩。我相信他们会这样的！他们知道我过去的表现，是不是？你知道我是怎样一个人。我这个人不坏。当然，没有头脑，但是热情。我尽了我的力量为党做工作，是不是？我大概判五年就差不多了，你想是不是？还是十年？象我这样的人在劳动营用处很大。他们不会因为我偶尔出了一次轨就枪毙我的吧？”
“你有罪吗？”温斯顿问。
“我当然有罪！”派逊斯奴颜婢膝地看了一眼电幕。“你以为党会逮捕一个无辜的人吗？”他的青蛙脸平静了一些，甚至有了一种稍带神圣的表情。“思想罪可是件要不得的事情，老兄，”他庄重地说，“它很阴险。你甚至还不知道发生了什么事，它就抓住了你。你知道它怎样抓住我的吗？在睡梦里！
是的，事实就是如此。你想，象我这样的人，辛辛苦苦，尽我的本分，从来不知道我的头脑里有过什么坏思想。可是我开始说梦话。你知道他们听到了我说什么吗？”
他压低了声音，好象有人为了医学上的原因而不得不说肮脏话一样。
“‘打倒老大哥！’真的，我说了这个！看来说了还不止一遍。老兄，这话我只对你说，他们没有等这再进一步就逮住了我，我倒感到高兴。你知道我到法庭上去要对他们怎么说吗？我要说，‘谢谢你们，谢谢你们及时挽救了我。’”“那么谁揭发你的？”温斯顿问。
“我的小女儿。”派逊斯答道，神情有些悲哀，但又自豪。
“她在门缝里偷听。一听到我的话，她第二天就去报告了巡逻队。一个七岁小姑娘够聪明的，是不是？我一点也不恨她。
我反而为她觉得骄傲。这说明我把她教育得很好。”
他又来回做了几个神经质的动作，好几次眼巴巴地看着便盆。接着他突然拉下了短裤。
“对不起，老兄，”他说，“我憋不住了。等了好久了。”
他的大屁股坐到了便盆上。温斯顿用手遮住脸。
“史密斯！”电幕上的声音吆喝道，“6079号史密斯！不许遮脸。牢房里不许遮脸。”
温斯顿把手移开。派逊斯大声痛快地用了便盆。结果发现冲水的开关不灵。牢房里后来好几小时臭气熏天。
派逊斯给带走了。接着又神秘地来了一些犯人，后来又给带走了。有一个女犯人听到要带到“101号房”里去脸色就变了，人好象顿时矮了一截。有一个时候——如果他带进来的时候是早上，那就是下午；如果是下午，那就是半夜——
牢房里有六个犯人，有男有女。大家都一动不动地坐着。温斯顿对面坐着一个没有下巴颏儿、牙齿外露的男人，他的脸就好象一只驯良的大兔子一样。他的肥胖的多斑的双颊宽松下垂，很难不相信里面没有存储着一些吃的。他的浅灰色的眼睛胆怯地从这张脸转到那一张脸，一看到有人注意他，就马上把视线转移开去。
门打开了，又有一个犯人给带了进来，温斯顿看到他的样子，心里一阵凉。他是一个面目平庸的普通人，可能是个工程师，或者是个技术员。但是教人吃惊的是他面孔的消瘦，完全象个骷髅。由于瘦削，眼睛和嘴巴就大得不成比例，眼睛里似乎有一种对什么人或什么东西都怀有刻骨仇恨的恶狠狠神情。
那个人坐在温斯顿不远的板凳上。温斯顿没有再看他，但是那痛苦的骷髅一般的脸在他的脑海里栩栩如生，好象就在他的眼前一样。他突然明白了这是怎么一回事。那个人快要饿死了。这个念头似乎同时闪过牢房里其他每个人的脑海。板凳上传开来一阵轻微的骚动。那个没有下巴颏儿的人的眼光一直向那骷髅一般的人瞥去，马上又有点带着疚意地转了开去，可是又忍不住给吸引过去。接着他就坐立不安起来。终于他站了起来，一手插在工作服的口袋里，蹒跚地走过去，有点难为情地拿出一片发黑的面包来给骷髅头的人。
电幕上马上发出一声震耳的怒吼。没有下巴颏儿的人吓了一跳。骷髅头的人马上把手放到身后去，好象要向全世界表示他不要那礼物。
“本姆斯特德，”电幕上的声音咆哮道。“2713号本姆斯特德！把那块面包撂在地上！”
没有下巴颏儿的人把那块面包撂在地上。
“站在原地别动，”那声音说。“面对着门。不许动！”
没有下巴颏儿的人遵命不动，他的鼓鼓的面颊无法控制地哆嗦起来。门砰的打开了。年轻的军官进来以后，闪开一旁，后面进来一个矮壮的警卫，胳膊粗壮，孔武有力。他站在没有下巴颏儿的人面前，等那军官一使眼色，就用全身的力量猛的一拳打在没有下巴颏儿的人的嘴上，用力之猛，几乎使他离地而起。他的身体倒到牢房另一头去，掉在便盆的底座前。他躺在那里好象吓呆了一样，乌血从嘴巴和鼻子中流了出来。他有点不自觉地发出了一阵十分轻微的呻吟声。
接着他翻过身去，双手双膝着地，摇摇晃晃地要想站起来。
在鲜血和口水中，他的嘴里掉出来打成两半的一排假牙。
犯人们都一动不动地坐着，双手交叠在膝上。没有下巴颏儿的人爬回到他原来的地方。他的脸有一边的下面开始发青。他的嘴巴肿得象一片樱桃色的没有形状的肉块，中间有一个黑洞。血一滴一滴地流到他胸前工作服上。他的灰色的眼睛仍旧转来转去看着别人的脸，比以前更加惶恐了，好象他要弄清楚，他受到这样侮辱别人到底怎样瞧不起他。
门打开了。那个军官略一动手，指着那个骷髅头的人。
“101号房，”他说。
温斯顿身旁有人倒吸一口气。那个骷髅头的人一头栽到地上，跪在上面，双手握紧。
“同志！首长！”他叫道。“你不用把我带到那里去！我不是已经把什么都告诉你了吗？你还想知道什么？我没有什么不愿招供的，没有什么！你只用告诉我是什么，我都马上招供。你写下来，我就签字——什么都行！可不要带我到101号房去！”
“101号房，”那军官说。
那个人的脸本已发白，这时已变成温斯顿不相信会有的颜色，肯定无疑地是一层绿色。
“你怎么对待我都行！”他叫道。“你已经饿了我好几个星期了。把我饿到头，让我死吧。枪毙我。吊死我。判我二十五年。你们还有什么人要我招供的吗？只要说是谁，我就把你们要知道的事情都告诉你们。我不管他是谁，也不管你们要怎样对待他。我有妻子和三个孩子。最大的还不到六岁。你可以把他们全都带来，在我面前把他们喉管割断，我一定站在这里看着。可是千万别把我带到101号房去！”
“101号房，”那军官说。
那个人焦急地一个个看着周围的其他犯人，仿佛有个主意，要把别人来当他的替死鬼。他的眼光落到了那个没有下巴颏儿的人被打烂了的脸。他猛地举起了他的瘦骨嶙峋的胳膊。
“你们应该带他去，不应该带我去！”他叫道。“你们可没有听到他们打烂了他的脸以后他说些什么。只要绘我一个机会，我就可以把他说的话全部告诉你。反党的是他，不是我。”警卫走上前一步。那个人的嗓门提高到尖叫的程度。
“你们可没有叫到他！”他又说，“电幕出了毛病。你们要的是他，不是我，快把他带定！”
那两个粗壮的警卫得俯身抓佐他的胳膊才制服他。可是就在这个当儿，他朝牢房的地上一扑，抓住墙边板凳的铁腿不放。他象畜生似的大声嚎叫。警卫抓住他身子，要把他的手指扳开，可是他紧抓住不放，气力大得惊人。他们拉了他二十秒钟左右。其他犯人安静地坐在一旁，双手交叠地放在膝上，眼睛直瞪瞪地望着前方。嚎叫停止了，那个人已快没有气了。这时又是一声呼号，只是声音不同。原来那个警卫的皮靴踢断了他的一根手指。他们终于把他拽了起来。
“101号房，”那个军官说。
那个人给带了出去，走路摇摇晃晃，脑袋低垂，捧着他给踢伤的手，一点劲儿都没有了。
经过了一段很长的时间。如果那个骷髅头带走的时候是午夜，那么现在就是上午了；如果是上午，就是下午。只有温斯顿一个人，这样已有几个小时了。老是坐在狭板凳上屁股发痛，他就站起来走动走动，倒没有受到电幕的叱喝。那块面包仍在那个没下巴颏儿丢下的地方。开始时，要不去看它，真得咬紧牙关才行，但是过了一会，口渴比肚饥更难受了。他的嘴巴干燥难受，还有一股恶臭。嗡嗡的声音和苍白的灯光造成了一种昏晕的感觉，使他的脑袋感到空空如也。
他在全身骨头痛得难受的时候就站起来，可是几乎马上又坐下去，因为脑袋发晕，站不住脚。只要身体感官稍一正常，恐怖便又袭上心头。他有时抱着万一的希望，想到奥勃良和刀片。即使给他送吃的来，不可想象地里面会藏着刀片。他也依稀地想到裘莉亚。她不知在什么地方也在受苦，也许比他还厉害。她现在可能在痛得尖叫。他想：“如果我多吃些苦能救裘莉亚，我肯不肯？是的，我肯的。”但这只是个理智上的决定，因为他知道他应该如此。但他没有这种感觉。在这种地方，除了痛和痛的预感以外，你没有别的感觉。此外，你在受苦的时候，不管为了什么原因，真的能够希望痛苦再增加一些？不过这个问题目前还无法答复。
皮靴又走近了。门打了开来。奥勃良走了进来。
温斯顿要站起来。他吃惊之下，什么戒备都忘掉了。多年来第一次，他忘掉了墙上的电幕。
“他们把你也逮到了！”他叫道。
“他们早就把我逮到了，”奥勃良说，口气里略带一种几乎感到歉意的讽刺。他闪开身子，从他背后出现了一个胸围粗壮的警卫，手中握着一根长长的黑色橡皮棍。
“你是明白的，温斯顿，”奥勃良说，“别自欺欺人。你原来就明白，你一直是明白的。”
是的，他现在明白了，他一直是明白的。但没有时间去想这个。他看到的只有那个警卫手中的橡皮棍。落在什么地方都可能：脑袋顶上，耳朵尖上，胳膊上，手肘上——
手肘上！他瘫了下来，一只手捧着那条挨了一棍的手肘，几乎要跪倒在地。眼前一阵昏花，什么都炸成了一片黄光。不可想象，不可想象一棍打来会造成这样的痛楚！黄光消褪了，他可以看清他们两个人低头看着他。那个警卫看到他那难受劲儿感到好笑。至少有一个问题得到了解答。不管什么原因，你无法希望增加痛苦。对于痛苦，你只能有一个希望：那就是停止。天下没有比身体上的痛苦更难受的了。
在痛苦面前，没有英雄，没有英雄。他在地上滚来滚去，一遍又一遍地这么想着，捧着他那打残了的左臂，毫无办法。
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收听单词发音
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1
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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2
porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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3
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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lavatory
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| n.盥洗室，厕所 | |
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5
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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6
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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8
overalls
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| n.（复）工装裤；长罩衣 | |
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9
tickle
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| v.搔痒，胳肢；使高兴；发痒；n.搔痒，发痒 | |
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10
din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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11
gauge
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| v.精确计量；估计；n.标准度量；计量器 | |
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12
filthily
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| adv.污秽地，丑恶地，不洁地 | |
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13
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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14
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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15
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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16
smuggled
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| 水货 | |
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17
wheedle
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| v.劝诱，哄骗 | |
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18
bribery
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| n.贿络行为，行贿，受贿 | |
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19
illicit
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| adj.非法的，禁止的，不正当的 | |
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20
distilled
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| adj.由蒸馏得来的v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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21
gangsters
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| 匪徒，歹徒( gangster的名词复数 ) | |
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22
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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23
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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24
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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25
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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26
hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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27
bastards
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| 私生子( bastard的名词复数 )； 坏蛋； 讨厌的事物； 麻烦事 （认为别人走运或不幸时说）家伙 | |
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28
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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29
belched
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| v.打嗝( belch的过去式和过去分词 )；喷出，吐出；打（嗝）；嗳（气） | |
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30
vomited
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31
vomit
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| v.呕吐，作呕；n.呕吐物，吐出物 | |
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32
copiously
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| adv.丰富地，充裕地 | |
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sentimentally
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| adv.富情感地 | |
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34
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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35
grovelling
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| adj.卑下的，奴颜婢膝的v.卑躬屈节，奴颜婢膝( grovel的现在分词 )；趴 | |
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36
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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40
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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41
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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42
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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43
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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44
definitive
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| adj.确切的，权威性的；最后的，决定性的 | |
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45
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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46
pedant
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| n.迂儒；卖弄学问的人 | |
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47
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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desultorily
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| adv. 杂乱无章地, 散漫地 | |
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49
lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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50
perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
sagged
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| 下垂的 | |
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52
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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53
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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54
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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55
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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56
sanctimonious
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| adj.假装神圣的，假装虔诚的，假装诚实的 | |
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57
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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58
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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59
defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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60
stank
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| n. (英)坝，堰，池塘 动词stink的过去式 | |
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61
abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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62
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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63
rodent
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| n.啮齿动物；adj.啮齿目的 | |
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64
pouched
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| adj.袋形的，有袋的 | |
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timorously
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| adv.胆怯地，羞怯地 | |
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66
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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67
emaciation
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| n.消瘦，憔悴，衰弱 | |
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68
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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69
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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70
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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71
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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72
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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73
waddled
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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76
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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77
pouchy
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| adj.多袋的，袋状的，松垂的 | |
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78
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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79
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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80
oozing
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的现在分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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81
squeaking
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的现在分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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82
saliva
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| n.唾液，口水 | |
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83
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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84
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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85
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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86
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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87
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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88
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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89
slumped
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| 大幅度下降，暴跌( slump的过去式和过去分词 )； 沉重或突然地落下[倒下] | |
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90
contortions
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| n.扭歪，弯曲；扭曲，弄歪，歪曲( contortion的名词复数 ) | |
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91
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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