[...] There was a trampling of boots and another blast on the comb as the children charged into the living room. Mrs. Parsons brought the spanner. Winston let out the water and disgustedly removed the clot of human hair that had blocked up the pipe. He cleaned his fingers as best he could in the cold water from the tap and went back into the other room.
"Up with your hands!" yelled a savage voice.
A handsome, tough-looking boy of nine had popped up from behind the table and was menacing him with a toy automatic pistol, while his small sister, about two years younger, made the same gesture with a fragment of wood. Both of them were dressed in the blue shorts, gray shirts, and red neckerchiefs which were the uniform of the Spies. Winston raised his hands above his head, but with an uneasy feeling, so vicious was the boy's demeanor, that it was not altogether a game.
"You're a traitor!" yelled the boy. "Youire a thought-criminal! You're a Eurasian spy! I'll shoot you, I'll vaporize you, I'll send you to the salt mines!"
Suddenly they were both leaping around him, shouting "Traitor!" and "Thought-criminal!", the little girl imitating her brother in every movement. It was some how slightly frightening, like the gamboling of tiger cubs which will soon grow up into man-eaters. There was a sort of calculating ferocity in the boy's eye, a quite evident desire to hit or kick Winston and a conscius ess of being very nearly big enough to do so. It was a good jon it was not a real pistol he was holding, Wiston thought.
Mrs. Parson's eyes flitted nervously from Winston to the children, and back again- In the better light of the living room he noticed with interest that there actually was dust in the creases of her face.
"They do get so noisy", she said. "They're disappointed because they couldn't go to see the hanging, that's what is it. I'm too busy ti take them, and Tom won't be back from work in time".
"Why can't we go and see the hanging?" roared the boy in huge voice.
"Want to see the hanging! Want to see the hanging!" chanted the little girl, still capering round.
Some Eurasian prisoners, guilty of war crimesm were to be hanged in the Park that evening, Winston remebered. This happened about once a mounth, and was a popular spectacle.
Children always clamored to be taken to see it. He took his leave of Mrs. Parosons and made for the door. But he had not gone six steps down the passage when something hit the back of his neck an agonizingly painful blow.
It was as though a red-hot wire had been jabbed into him. He spun round just in time to see Mrs. Parsons dragging her son back into the doorway while the boy pocketed a catapult.
"Goldstein!" bellowed the boy as the door closed on him.
But what most struck Winston was the look of helpless fright on the woman's graysh face.