She began at once a hasty readjustment of her hair, while Ramage parleyed with inaudible interrogations. ‘No, no, Jacques, you have done very right. More strange stories were told of it than of any other house in London. Why? If she had put the query to herself, she could not have answered it. “He must never know,” she would whisper to herself, “he must never know. 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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