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Each time that Winston broke off for one of his spells of sleep he tried to leave his desk clear of work , and each time that he crawled back sticky-eyed and aching , it was to find that another shower of paper cylinders had covered the desk like a snowdrift , halfburying the speakwrite and overflowing on to the floor , so that the first job was always to stack them into a neat enough pile to give him room to work . gold

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