O'Brien was any
kind of political conspirator? Nothing but a flash of the eyes and a single
equivocal remark: beyond that, only his own secret imaginings, founded on a
dream. He could not even fall back on the pretence that he had come to
borrow the dictionary, because in that case Julia's presence was impossible
to explain. As O'Brien passed the telescreen a thought seemed to strike
him. He stopped, turned aside and pressed a switch on the wall. There was a
sharp snap. The voice had stopped.
Julia uttered a tiny sound, a sort of squeak of surprise. Even in the
midst of his panic, Winston was too much taken aback to be able to hold his
tongue.
'You can turn it off!' he said.
'Yes,' said O'Brien, 'we can turn it off. We have that privilege.'
He was opposite them now. His solid form towered over the pair of
them, and the expression on his face was still indecipherable. He was
waiting, somewhat sternly, for Winston to speak, but about what? Even now
it was quite conceivable that he was simply a busy man wondering irritably
why he had been interrupted. Nobody spoke. After the stopping of the
telescreen the room seemed deadly silent. The seconds marched past,
enormous. With difficulty Winston continued to keep his eyes fixed on
O'Brien's. Then suddenly the grim face broke down into what might have been
the beginnings of a smile. With his characteristic gesture O'Brien
resettled his spectacles on his nose.
'Shall I say it, or will you?' he said.
'I will say it,' said Winston promptly. 'That thing is really turned
off?'
'Yes, everything is turned off. We are alone.'
'We have co