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Alberto Gaffi glanced at the books lining the dust-laden shelves as the sun cut through the jaded curtains. Good books, he thought, as he crossed the stained shag pile carpet to the door. He might have made more money selling shirts, or insurance, but he would have had fewer friends. Was it worth it? Ask my friends, he thought, as he closed the door on the next chapter of his life. The dank smell of used cigarette smoke lingered in the hallway. The aura of passing souls, he thought, remembering David and his demons.
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