1984 by George Orwell Book 1 Chapter 8

'I arst you civil enough, didn't I?' said the old man, straightening his shoulders pugnaciously. 'You telling me you ain't got a pint mug in th 'ole bleeding boozer?'

Immediately above his head there hung three discoloured metal balls which looked as if they had once been gilded.

With the feeling that he would be less conspicuous inside than hanging about on the pavement, he stepped through the doorway.

His voice was soft, as though faded, and his accent less debased than that of the majority of proles.

'I'm selling the furniture off by little and little. Now that's a beautiful mahogany bed, or at least it would be if you could get the bugs out of it. But I dare say you'd find it a little bit cumbersome.'

For perhaps five seconds exaltation made him careless, and he stepped out on to the pavement without so much as a preliminary glance through the window.

When once you had succumbed to thoughtcrime it was certain that by a given date you would be dead.