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And the bombed sites where the plaster dust swirled in the air and the willow-herb straggled over the heaps of rubble; and the places where the bombs had cleared a larger patch and there had sprung up sordid colonies of wooden dwellings like chicken-houses?

But it was no use, he could not remember: nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright-lit tableaux occurring against no background and mostly unintelligible.

A kilometre away the Ministry of Truth, his place of work, towered vast and white above the grimy landscape.

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It was the police patrol, snooping into people's windows. The telescreen received and transmitted simultaneously. Any sound that Winston made, above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by it, moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vision which the metal plaque commanded, he could be seen as well as heard.

There was of course no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment.

The Ministry of Truth, which concerned itself with news, entertainment, education, and the fine arts.

The Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself with war.

On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall.

It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of figures which had something to do with the production of pig-iron.

There was one on the house-front immediately opposite.

, the caption said, while the dark eyes looked deep into Winston's own.

The instrument (the telescreen, it was called) could be dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off completely.

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