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“Well, I do. 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. After all, if one could wait twenty years or more in between bouts of lovemaking, one could certainly wait a few more days. I’ve to collect my sword and hat, and then we must get back to London. She worried for Cathy, working double shifts at the nearby family restaurant to help make ends meet. A black silk furbelowed scarf covered her shoulders; and over the kincob gown hung a yellow satin apron, trimmed with white Persian. Good looks, with a melancholy cast, always drew sentimental females. Come up stairs, and take a glass of brandy. "But you said you weren't particular. In olden days it boasted a chapel, dedicated to Saint Thomas; beneath which there was a crypt curiously constructed amid the arches, where "was sepultured Peter the Chaplain of Colechurch, who began the Stone Bridge at London:" and it still boasted an edifice (though now in rather a tumbledown condition) which had once vied with a palace,—we mean Nonesuch House.
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