He let what he judged to be ten minutes go by, tormented all the while by the fear that some accident — a sudden draught blowing across his desk, for instance — would betray him.
Or to bang his head against the wall, to kick over the table, and hurl the inkpot through the window — to do any violent or noisy or painful thing that might black out the memory that was tormenting him.
Lunch in the hot, crowded, noise-filled canteen was torment.
He was the tormentor, he was the protector, he was the inquisitor, he was the friend.
Winston did not look at him again, but the tormented, skull-like face was as vivid in his mind as though it had been straight in front of his eyes.
A world of fear and treachery is torment, a world of trampling and being trampled upon, a world which will grow not less but more merciless as it refines itself.