on, conscious
that what he was saying must sound both feeble and pretentious:
'We believe that there is some kind of conspiracy, some kind of secret
organization working against the Party, and that you are involved in it. We
want to join it and work for it. We are enemies of the Party. We disbelieve
in the principles of Ingsoc. We are thought-criminals. We are also
adulterers. I tell you this because we want to put ourselves at your mercy.
If you want us to incriminate ourselves in any other way, we are ready.'
He stopped and glanced over his shoulder, with the feeling that the
door had opened. Sure enough, the little yellow-faced servant had come in
without knocking. Winston saw that he was carrying a tray with a decanter
and glasses.
'Martin is one of us,' said O'Brien impassively. 'Bring the drinks
over here, Martin. Put them on the round table. Have we enough chairs? Then
we may as well sit down and talk in comfort. Bring a chair for yourself,
Martin. This is business. You can stop being a servant for the next ten
minutes.'
The little man sat down, quite at his ease, and yet still with a
servant-like air, the air of a valet enjoying a privilege. Winston regarded
him out of the corner of his eye. It struck him that the man's whole life ...