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"Shoot!" repeated Flint, staring vaguely into Gary’s bloodshot eyes; "you shoot, you old slacker " "Shut up and play the game!" cut in Carfax, a menacing roar rising in his voice. "You’re all slackers and rotters, too. Play the game! Keep playing hard! or you’ll go clean off your fool nuts!" Gary walked heavily over and knocked the tennis balls out of Flint’s hands.
It was hot work, but they kept at it feverishly, grimly, as though their very sanity depended upon the violence of their diversion. They threw the balls hard, viciously hard. A sort of silent ferocity seemed to seize them. A chance hit cut the skin over Flint’s cheekbone, and when the candle was lighted, one side of his face was bright with blood.
"I could stand it, too, except being up here with such" his voice dwindled to a mutter, but it sounded to Gary as though he had used the word "rotters." Flint’s face had a white, strained expression; he began to walk about, saying aloud to himself: "If I could only sleep. That’s the idea sleep it off, and wake up somewhere else. It’s the silence, or the voices I don’t know which.
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