Every hour by the hour he combed his short, slick hair with two strokes on each side and on top, flattening his hair down with his other hand. Culver didn't need to comb his hair, he did it by rote. Now an old man, he lay on his death bed, unable to speak or open his eyes but that didn't stop him from combing his hair with an imaginary fine-toothed comb, every hour on the hour until he took his last breath.
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