"... Really?" Puck says, entirely straight-faced.

This is a hazard of exchanging bon mots with somebody with the approximate mental maturity of a twelve-year-old.

"How marvelous for you."

As one who has been once accustomed to overcasting the night, the thunder does not unduly faze him; he does, however, admire its narrative timing, and wonder briefly if Margolotta also controls the weather.