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. They say it hasn't been opened for eight years—but I won't be eight years in getting out of it. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. Pausing at each door on the landing, Jack placed his ear to the keyhole, and listened intently. The latter were saved; but of the former nothing but the blackened stone walls were found standing on the morrow. I'll tote it myself.
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