There was a sound of marching boots outside. The steel door opened
with a clang. A young officer, a trim black-uniformed figure who seemed to
glitter all over with polished leather, and whose pale, straight-featured
face was like a wax mask, stepped smartly through the doorway. He motioned
to the guards outside to bring in the prisoner they were leading. The poet
Ampleforth shambled into the cell. The door clanged shut again.
Ampleforth made one or two uncertain movements from side to side, as
though having some idea that there was another door to go out of, and then
began to wander up and down the cell. He had not yet noticed Winston's
presence. His troubled eyes were gazing at the wall about a metre above the
level of Winston's head. He was shoeless; large, dirty toes were sticking
out of the holes in his socks. He was also several days away from a shave.
A scrubby beard covered his face to the cheekbones, giving him an air of
ruffianism that went oddly with his large weak frame and nervous movements.
Winston roused hirnself a little from his lethargy. He must speak to
Ampleforth, and risk the yell from the telescreen. It was even conceivable
that Ampleforth was the bearer of the razor blade.
'Ampleforth,' he said.
There was no yell from the telescreen. Ampleforth paused, mildly
startled. His eyes focused themselves slowly on Winston.
'Ah, Smith!' he said. 'You too!'
'What are you in for?'