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... atchman; no matter how strong the night wind blew, it couldn’t extinguish his lamp.
Hoffman stood under the streetlight, one arm crossed over his chest, the other holding a cigar.
Honestly, the scene was a bit abstract.
A person with the demeanor of a slave master looked every bit like a boss, one who should be in a manor, lounging in a wide and comfortable sofa, listening while his subordinates reported they had shot the head of a rival gang.
A black guy squatted ...
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