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. Or at least he did the day before yesterday. Perhaps these few words were the first real conscious words he had uttered in days. Before very long I hope to have definite work. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. Oblige me by acting under my guidance in the matter, Sir Rowland. ‘You’d do the same. "Don't ask me about it now.
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