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?'
'Apparently 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 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 rhy