1 Half of them hadn't even boots on their feet.
2 I think it spoils it when they tie their feet together.
3 I suffer something wicked from my feet, and my bladder's jest terrible.
4 He settled deeper into the arm-chair and put his feet up on the fender.
5 Roared out by hundreds of voices to the tramp of marching feet, it was terrifying.
6 She did not feel the abyss opening beneath her feet at the thought of lies becoming truths.
7 He started to his feet with a malignant glance at Winston, whom he evidently suspected of having tripped him up.
8 And yet the instant that he allowed his thoughts to wander, his feet had brought him back here of their own accord.
9 The room was full of solid men in black uniforms, with iron-shod boots on their feet and truncheons in their hands.
10 Winston sat for a minute or two gazing at his empty glass, and hardly noticed when his feet carried him out into the street again.
11 All three men sprang to their feet to join in the struggle round the lifts, and the remaining tobacco fell out of Winston's cigarette.
12 His overalls fretted his shoulders, the pavement tickled his feet, even the opening and closing of a hand was an effort that made his joints creak.
13 It was a dark, dirty, miserable place where hardly anybody had enough to eat and where hundreds and thousands of poor people had no boots on their feet and not even a roof to sleep under.
14 In the labyrinthine Ministry the windowless, air-conditioned rooms kept their normal temperature, but outside the pavements scorched one's feet and the stench of the Tubes at the rush hours was a horror.
15 Winston, still carrying the brief-case containing the book, which had remained between his feet while he worked and under his body while he slept, went home, shaved himself, and almost fell asleep in his bath, although the water was barely more than tepid.
16 He did not remember the raid itself, but he did remember his father's hand clutching his own as they hurried down, down, down into some place deep in the earth, round and round a spiral staircase which rang under his feet and which finally so wearied his legs that he began whimpering and they had to stop and rest.
17 It seemed to him that he knew exactly what it felt like to sit in a room like this, in an arm-chair beside an open fire with your feet in the fender and a kettle on the hob; utterly alone, utterly secure, with nobody watching you, no voice pursuing you, no sound except the singing of the kettle and the friendly ticking of the clock.
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