After all superfluous flesh is gone what is left is stringy and resistant.

In fact, that was what I became--a sort of string-like organism that persisted in living.
Morrell and Oppenheimer were sorry for me, and rapped me sympathy and advice.

Oppenheimer told me he had gone through it, and worse, and still lived.
"Don't let them beat you out," he spelled with his knuckles.

"Don't let them kill you, for that would suit them.

And don't squeal on the plant." "But there isn't any plant," I rapped back with the edge of the sole of my shoe against the grating--I was in the jacket at the time and so could talk only with my feet.