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George orwell 1984pdf5/21/2023 The flat was seven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a meter wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him. It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.
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