It was a sort of cooking-room, with an immense fire-place flanked by a couple of cauldrons, and was called Jack Ketch's Kitchen, because the quarters of persons executed for treason were there boiled by the hangman in oil, pitch, and tar, before they were affixed on the city gates, or on London Bridge. “Go on!” “You know—in Paris they coupled my name with some one’s—an Englishman’s. Annabel was in hiding all the time. But now it was all over, and Alice was getting on well.
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