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12.
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Hoborg could not get himself to do anything, he just lay there. Hoborg began to scrape, absent-mindedly, at the dirt where his hand lay. Then he said, ''Scraping is better to me than death.'' It was a fine, dry dirt that was packed down and baked hard by the white sun. His fingers bent, lifted and stretched; bent, lifted and stretched; bent, lifted and stretched, scratching relentlessly. His fingers scraped through the layers of fine dust and grit day after day. Just a few grains of dust and grit required weeks of scraping before it broke loose from the ground, the ground was that hard and compacted.
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