Looking at this girl, a sense of failure swept over him. Her husband was drinking in the tavern with the other guests. “Poor Lucy!” Cathy exclaimed as she rushed in the door, umbrella sheathed. Sir James Thornhill, then, rose. And nothing to tell her where to begin. On a small shelf near the foot of the bed stood a couple of empty phials, a cracked ewer and basin, a brown jug without a handle, a small tin coffee-pot without a spout, a saucer of rouge, a fragment of looking-glass, and a flask, labelled "Rosa Solis.
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