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. Yet you catch her eye—you can’t seem to escape from it. “There was a keg, hash, LSD, pot, you know, the usual.
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