Sir John followed me to London and married me. I have been thinking these things over lately, and it seems to me that marriage for a girl is just the supremest thing in life. She didn’t like the shops, she didn’t like the other women’s faces; she thought the smirking men in frock-coats who dominated these establishments the most intolerable persons she had ever had to face. 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. She had eaten little or no tea, and her mid-day meal had been worse than nothing. ‘Did she call you that?’ asked Lucilla, amused. Pause.
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