the razor blade. There was another spasm 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 misery. 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
'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 guilt and a sort of incredulous
horror that such a word could be applied 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 fi