“Absolutely platonically,” she said. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. Not a star could be discerned, but, in their stead, streaks of lurid radiance, whence proceeding it was impossible to determine, shot ever and anon athwart the dusky vault, and added to the ominous and threatening appearance of the night. Maybe half a year, counting this summer. ‘Didn’t mean to say that.
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