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... th, a Sunday morning.
The rain was even heavier than last night, almost on the verge of turning into a downpour.
At dawn, the whole city seemed cloaked in a layer of gray mist.
The old houses on Old Factory Street had a damp, secretive air, half hidden and half exposed.
The breakfast stall downstairs was already open, with wisps of white smoke curling up.
A man sat beside the plastic table under the rain shelter, wolfing down meat buns with soy milk.
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