"Caught with the goods.

Oh, you 're a fine preacher of morals, but I 've got you dead to rights this time." Winston stood as though carven from stone, his face deathly white, his lips compressed, his gray eyes burning, never wavering from that mocking face.

With all his strength of will he battled back the first mad impulse to throttle the man, to crush him into shapeless pulp.

For one awful moment his mind became a chaos, his blood throbbing fire.

To kill would be joy, a relief inexpressible.