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Rabbit was, after all, the sort of person—kind, caring, entirely adult—who would come outside to make sure she was okay, if he had witnessed her diving to the sidewalk outside Porter Square’s oldest established watering hole. She’d been inside the Newtowne once or twice. It was your standard townie bar: shouting TVs, glowing blue Keno screens, a dining room on one side and a dark, cozy bar on the other. On a Wednesday night, without any big sporting events, it would be slow and empty, the handful of requisite townies bellied up but none of the students and hipster yuppies who would clog it on trivia nights, the sports fans who preferred the atmosphere—low stakes, low expectations, a relic of another time, like someone’s uncle’s basement—
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