When the masters of the house left for vacation, you thought you'd finally get some peace and quiet of your own. Then these cretins traipsed up the drive. Surely, you'd thought, if you ruined enough furniture, made enough weird noises in the night, and left enough dead birds on the doorstep, rumors of your ruthless torment of Strickland Manor would spread far and wide, warding off any irksome visitors.
But, you suppose, there's no accounting for idiocy.
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