There was one on the house-front immediately opposite. The black-moustachio’d face gazed down from every commanding corner. Down in the street little eddies of wind were whirling dust and torn paper into spirals, and though the sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were plastered everywhere. Outside, even through the shut window-pane, the world looked cold. His hair was very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls which were the uniform of the Party. The instrument (the telescreen, it was called) could be dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off completely. Winston turned a switch and the voice sank somewhat, though the words were still distinguishable. The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the right-hand wall. Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of figures which had something to do with the production of pig-iron. There seemed to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were plastered everywhere
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