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Subscribe to Tino S&DIt was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. 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.
From where Winston stood it was just possible to read, picked out on its white face in elegant lettering, the three slogans of the Party: |
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