'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 wrench 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, b