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Jules

“No, it’s just a neighborhood display house,” hisses Puri, pulling her along. Jules follows. As usual.

“Puri!” She whispers back. “You don’t know that!”

“I told you, it’s cool. Nobody lives here, they keep it around to bump up property values. Show it on tours.” One skinny wrist pokes through the cast-iron gate in the hedge and unlatches it.

They both get their cuffs soaked with dew, peering in at urns, paintings, tapestry in the dining room. Puri grins back as they turn a corner–and then somebody hits a light.

Wet cuffs or no, they clear the hedge like antelopes.

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