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. Her white shirt was ridiculously utilitarian, but fitted in all the right places, he smirked. I should say that having a doubt was enough to condemn it. " "Impossible!" rejoined his mother.
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