When they go out for a smoke, she looks at the stars and is glad (there are none in Center City). Her mind realizes the pun and scoffs— as if those two-bit degenerates, with their Gucci glasses and Le Bec Fins, were really stars. But the people here are beneath her too, for a different reason. They’re talking to her; she’s not listening. She’s looking at Glenside Station, and dreaming.
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