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. "I fear not," replied Jack, despondingly. "Hist!" exclaimed Jack. Scarcely any one noticed the full measure of her consternation. I’ve had it, Sheila. Through her door curtain she could see the light from the study lamp. The chance it is the same for both.
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