There did not seem to be any further question that he
wanted to ask: still less did he feel any impulse to utter high-sounding
generalities. Instead of anything directly connected with O'Brien or the
Brotherhood, there came into his mind a sort of composite picture of the
dark bedroom where his mother had spent her last days, and the little room
over Mr. Charrington's shop, and the glass paperweight, and the steel
engraving in its rosewood frame. Almost at random he said:
'Did you ever happen to hear an old rhyme that begins "'Oranges and
lemons,' say the bells of St Clement's"?'
Again O'Brien nodded. With a sort of grave courtesy he completed the
stanza:

'Oranges and lemons,' say the bells of St. Clement's,
'You owe me three farthings,' say the bells of St. Martin's,
'When will you pay me?' say the bells of Old Bailey,
'When I grow rich,' say the bells of Shoreditch.

'You knew the last line!' said Winston.
'Yes, I knew the last line. And now, I am afraid, it is time for you
to go. But wait. You had better let me give you one of these tablets.'
As Winston stood up O'Brien held out a hand. His powerful grip crushed
the bones of Winston's palm. At the door Winston looked back, but O'Brien
seemed already to be in process of putting him out of mind. He was waiting
with his hand on the switch that controlled the telescreen. Beyond him
Winston could see the writing-table with its green-shaded lamp and the
speakwrite and the wire baskets deep-laden with papers. The incident was
closed. Within thirty seconds, it occurred to him, O'Brien would be back at
his interrupted and important work on behalf of the Party.



IX

Winston was gelatinous with fatigue. Gelatinous was the right word. It