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and she to him, their black-market meals, their adulteries,
their vague plottings against the Party—everything. And
yet, in the sense in which he intended the word, he had not
betrayed her. He had not stopped loving her; his feelings to-
wards her had remained the same. O’Brien had seen what
he meant without the need for explanation.
‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘how soon will they shoot me?’
‘It might be a long time,’ said O’Brien. ‘You are a difficult
case. But don’t give up hope. Everyone is cured sooner or
later. In the end we shall shoot you.’