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... ning both sides of the table. A full third of them had passed out while the rest were somewhere between senseless and comatose. He eyed the liquor swirling in his cup – it was some sort of wine that tasted more like vinegar – wondering how the Eight Fingers managed to get anything done.
While he worked, they just followed him around, chatting, giving passers-by threatening looks, and even sleeping when they could get away with it. Once the day was over, they acted as if they had just don ...
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