Lucy felt the hairs on her neck rise. ’ A laugh escaped her. She longed to enjoy human food as he did. “Yeah, I know. That is, until I investigated Iovelli-Alberti in the Fourteenth Century!” They reached a part of the subdivision dubbed “The Treehouse”, a popular hangout for edgy teens who smoked joints in its foundation pits. She looked up and said, a little breathlessly, “I’m sorry, aunt, but I don’t think I can. We’re going in. “I suppose some one makes a bit on the food,” she said.
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