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. " "Figg's an old friend of mine," rejoined Jack; "he was my instructor in the small sword and back sword exercise. ‘Yes, miss. ‘Always he is busy about my affairs. “Look, dear,” she said presently, “you can put the ten on the Jack. It was comforting to have her there, snoring gently. It seemed an emblem of the ruin he had caused. It came into her head with real emotional force that this must be some particularly fantastic sort of dream. A hansom stopped a little way off.
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